


heretical

by howlish



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Political Drama, background dedue/mercedes, gonna get mature but not yet explicit, i think this counts as slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2020-12-27 20:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21124556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howlish/pseuds/howlish
Summary: After the war, Sylvain sets his sights on peace with Sreng, a massive goal that he wouldn't have thought possible if it weren't for his chosen ally: Claude.Claudevain, set post-BL.





	1. Chapter 1

“You’re back early.” Felix’s tone was equal parts accusatory and amused— a silent _I told you so_ even though he had never been given the opportunity to tell it. This was no accident, Sylvain had kept his plan a secret specifically to avoid Felix telling him all the things wrong with him, but that was the problem with being friends their entire lives: Felix didn’t have to say a word, his sudden presence in Gautier territory and his posture as he leaned against the kitchen counter said it all better than any lecture.

“You weren’t even supposed to know I was gone,” came Sylvain’s weak excuse, but it was a cursory defense. Lip service.

“To the border of Sreng, which has been a war zone for our entire lives. Alone.” Sylvain shrugged uncomfortably. Someone had told Felix, and there was nothing he could do about that. “_Explain._”

He recognized that tone, that barest tinge of fear hidden under the layers of anger, and immediately Sylvain prickled. “Felix, it wasn’t—” he gave a small huff, and restarted, “I was just thinking it would be nice to attempt some peace talks with Sreng, now that Fódlan has calmed down. It wasn’t until after I got to the border that I realized it was as good as suicide, the way I was doing it.”

“After.”

“After! And I came back immediately. Didn’t even fight.”

There was a moment of silence as Felix sized him up, tried to find any lies, any sign of that unique Sylvain brand of hidden self-destruction, and finally relaxed his tensed shoulders with a sigh. “You were always useless as a politician. What were you thinking? You’d nip on over before breakfast and end a centuries-long border dispute?”

“I wasn’t.. thinking,” alright, he’d earned that eyeroll, “I just wanted to test the waters.”

“If you’re serious about this… get Dimitri involved. He’s the politician.”

“Not a chance. He’s got his hands full with Duscur, that’s too important for me to take away from for even a second. I think it would mean more coming from me, anyway. They know me in Sreng.”

Felix scoffed. “You could say that. Remind me what happened the last time you had a run-in with one of the Sreng leaders?”

Sylvain’s grin at the question was clearly not what Felix had been after, nor the way he stretched his arm back with a sigh of fondness as he recalled the story. “She broke my shield clean in half! Near took my arm off in the process, too, you should have seen her face when I got out of the way in time. Never did catch her name…”

Felix let out an audible _eugh_, but the annoyed way he waved Sylvain off was at the same time his permission to move forward. “Do what you want, see if I care. Just be sure they know where to send your corpse when they’re done tearing you apart.”

He would not admit to how desperately he needed that permission, but he could at least give Felix a small, heartfelt smile. “Thanks. I won’t let you down.”

——

And in the end, it was not just Felix’s permission, but his advice that Sylvain had needed. Not to ask Dimitri, no, but he was not the only politician in the world— some would argue he wasn’t even a _good_ one, just _better_ than Sylvain and Felix could ever be. In fact, there were surely several dozen more available and willing politicians than the one Sylvain _had_ decided to pursue, but once he had gotten the idea in his head, there was no going back until he had exhausted every avenue.

It had taken some weeks to bring him to Goneril territory; not because he thought it a bad option, but because he had wanted to be a bit more.. subtle in his approach. Ultimately, though, he’d always known Hilda would be the key, the only one who could keep a secret well enough to be trusted with what he was looking for— on both ends of that secret.

“Oh come on, Sylvain, I’d like to see him too, but you know he’s travelling!” Hilda’s signature pout was as cute as ever, carefully crafted to look as kissable as she could, but it was no more effective for it. Sylvain knew what he was after, and falling for Hilda’s distraction techniques was not on the agenda.

“Right, travelling. In Almyra, specifically.”

“You don’t know that!”

Sylvain gave her a sly smile that said otherwise, and was met with a frown in kind as he pulled out his trump card: A neat bundle of papers detailing information around the Kingdom that House Goneril had requested. “So _you’re_ the one getting deeply invested in Faerghus politics? The channels used to request it were sneaky, for sure, but I figured I’d save you the trouble by hand-delivering it. You know, since I was headed this way.”

Her silence spoke volumes, and she tapped her foot a few times under the table before finally answering, frustrated. “I’m not supposed to know where he is.”

“If he gets mad, I will gladly take any punishments myself.”

“Please, Claude isn’t like _your_ King, he doesn’t get all _murdery_ when he doesn’t get his way,” she waved her hands dramatically for emphasis.

“Oh come on, don’t get _mean_ just ‘cause I figured you out. I promise it’s important.”

“Yeah, I get it. I’ll make it work.”

She didn’t sound particularly pleased, but Sylvain knew just how to soften the blow, giving her a quick peck on the forehead. “Thank you, Hilda! I got you something pretty for your trouble, I’ll give it to you before we meet him.”

——

They both held to their word, a week later arriving at a little shack on the near side of Fódlan’s Throat. To his credit, Claude hid his surprise at the addition to their rendezvous well, offering only a tilt of his head as Sylvain entered behind Hilda. She gave an exaggerated shrug in response, “I know, but he kind of forced my hand. Couldn’t have him searching Almyra himself.”

Claude raised an eyebrow at the expensive new necklace safely fastened around Hilda’s neck, but turned his attention instead to the documents Sylvain had brought with him.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of having the noble House Gautier personally delivering my morning news?”

“A proposal,” Sylvain answered, placing the bundle down in front of Claude as offering. “Hopefully a mutually beneficial one.”

The interest that sparked in his eyes was plain, but his face remained neutral. “For me specifically?”

“No one else will do.”

Hilda interrupted with an obvious, “Alright, I can tell this is about to get _really_ political or _really_ steamy, and either way I don’t wanna be here! I’ll be outside. Don’t forget my hug before you go, Claude!”

After she had excused herself, Claude gestured to the seat across from him, and leaned back. “You know, I was kinda hoping for a blonde.”

“Hoping? So you.. expected this?” Sylvain asked as he made himself comfortable.

“_Eventually_, yeah. Depending on your proposal, of course.”

“Right.” Maybe he had bitten off a bit more than he could chew. “Unfortunately, His Majesty isn’t involved in this one. Not yet, anyway. Since you went through so much trouble to keep your location a secret, I haven’t told anybody where I am, or what I have in mind.”

“I’m gonna be honest, Gautier, I do appreciate that, but this is sounding less promising by the second. Out with it, then. What _did_ you find me for?”

“I need help. I have a sticky political situation I want to get involved in, and I’m bad at politics. I wanna learn from the best— or at least, the best who’s also a decent person.”

He could see the walls start to go up, distrust at the vague wording, doubt that this could be worth his time, but at least he was still listening. “How sticky are we talking?”

Sylvain’s answer was clear enough in his slight grimace alone. “Like… 200 years or so of nonstop fighting? You’ve heard of Sreng, right? My family’s always been tasked with guarding the border to Sreng, and when I was a kid, King Lambert and Duke Fraldarius lead an army to annex a decent chunk of Sreng land. It was just conquest, just growing the Kingdom, with how the country works there was no way they could fight back against an organized military force. I… want to make peace with them. Maybe give back what was originally theirs, we certainly don’t need it anymore.”

Claude laughed aloud, and Sylvain felt his face flush at the sound. “That is… _naïvely_ optimistic.”

“_I know._”

“_Buuut_ I don’t hate it. That is a massive undertaking, though. Why should I give you that much of my time and energy? What’s in it for me?”

Sylvain had prepared another argument, but thinking back over their conversation, he switched gears, getting a curious look in his eye. “Just how involved in Almyran politics are you, Claude?”

“Enough. Why?”

“Because…” _Ah. That was it._ “The reason you wanted to see the King is because you expect him to eventually seek peace with Almyra. Just not so soon.”

Claude’s eyes narrowed, and suddenly, they were both taking each other in a bit more sharply. “He’s a busy man. Heard he’s in talks with Duscur, that won’t be solved overnight. And that’s not even mentioning the issues within your borders.”

“Yeah, we’ve got a lot on our plate. But I don’t. He trusts me, and he trusts you too, Claude. So if we figure something out, I can pass it on to him fully formed and get whatever you need approved.”

“Are you.. bribing me with peace?” Claude’s voice was incredulous, but there was a hint of joy in it as well.

Sylvain smiled; he could see the oddity of it, but he didn’t think it was a terrible idea after all. “Maybe if we work on Almyra and Fódlan first, it can prepare me to do Sreng on my own. Almyra has to be easier, right? Since people on both sides actually want it?”

“Oh, you _are_ a bad politician,” Claude laughed again, tension disappearing. “You have my tentative interest, but if it seems feasible, we’re doing Sreng first. Then you’ll owe me.”

Sylvain’s face lit up, grinning unabashedly. “Thank you, Claude, this really means a lot. I won’t let you down, just say the word.”

“Hilda!” Claude’s raised voice brought Sylvain’s reluctant escort back in shortly, and as soon as she entered Claude added, “You enjoying your bribe, sellout?”

She giggled cheerfully, obviously picking up the mood of the room. “Oh, Sylvain’s harmless. You two have fun?”

The rest of the meeting was spent with Sylvain happily third-wheeling to Hilda and Claude’s catching up, while his mind spun with the possibilities that had just opened up to him. Somehow, the news that there were still greater challenges ahead than the task Sylvain had set out for made it feel a little less insurmountable, and also shockingly real. Maybe he had bitten off more than he could chew, but he was going to choke on it long before giving up.

——

It was a long two months before he heard from Claude again, and if it had been anyone else, Sylvain might have accepted it for lost. But something about Claude had always struck him as perfectly planned; call it the mark of a fellow schemer, that Sylvain always knew _exactly_ what he himself was doing, and recognized the same in another. When Sylvain’s body language screamed of his hatred for someone while his tongue spilled honey, it wasn’t for lack of acting prowess. When he’d gained a reputation for unfaithfulness, it was never once because he had _succumbed to temptation_. While Claude’s use of that calculated confidence was surely more tasteful than Sylvain’s old poisonous impulses, it was just as effective: Wherever he was, it was precisely where he intended to be.

So opening his front door to see the former leader of the Alliance standing there, his only comment was, “You’re gonna need more layers if we’re going to Sreng.”

Claude laughed, “Glad you know we’re going to them. It’s definitely colder than I anticipated…”

“Oh, this is nothing. So exactly how many toes can you lose to frostbite before it becomes a political faux pas on my part?” Sylvain joked as he lead Claude inside, looking him over carefully. Felix had a few overcoats and other winterwear left here for emergencies, and Claude was about his _height_, but his build was closer to Sylvain’s own… “We’ll find you something… How long before we head out?”

“Tomorrow morning. Sorry for the rush, I spent a bit too long gathering information.”

_The next day_. Sylvain’s clothes it would be. “About Sreng? What do you need to know?”

“No, actually— about Gautier. I took the liberty of talking to some of the people who live around here. You have got _quite_ the reputation.”

Instantly, Sylvain’s face paled. His _reputation_… “Those must have been some exciting talks,” he replied, not bothering to hide his nerves at the prospect, and he wasn’t sure he felt any better at the way Claude’s eyes lit up with amusement.

“Oh yeah, I heard all _sorts_ of things. About how you could seduce a daughter, mother, and grandmother all from the same house, how other nobles were always coming after your head, and how you aren’t actually the margrave yet. You hold no political power.” He paused, and Sylvain was prepared to be given a hard pass from that alone, but before he could rescind his request entirely, Claude continued. “And they told me how, from the first day of the war, you took over entirely and made your father look a fool. That even when they had the Empire _and_ Sreng breathing down their necks, the civilians felt safe, and the soldiers felt like they were doing what was right. The consensus was always the same: Your people trust you with their _lives_. Just not their daughters.”

“That,” Sylvain laughed, “is shockingly flattering. Are you sure they didn’t have me confused with Felix? He helped out a lot during the war.”

“_I’ve_ met Felix. They weren’t confused.”

He rubbed the back of his neck a bit sheepishly, before giving a hesitant, “Well, thanks. I appreciate the praise. I don’t imagine it’ll help us any in negotiations, though.” Finally, he turned to a hall closet, and extracted a handful of coats, laid out over the back of a chair. “So I take it that means we’re going after all? If so, we’ve gotta get you dressed. Oh, and I need to send a message to Felix back at the capital, too, if I just disappear without a trace he’ll… well, whatever it is, it won’t be pretty.”

Claude started to make his way through the coats on offer, experimenting with them over and under his own outerwear as he spoke. “You’ll have to send it through Hilda, she’s our point of contact here. And keep it vague, obviously, I can’t have His Kingliness latching onto my presence just yet.”

“That one will probably give you the best insulation on its own,” Sylvain gestured towards the thick brown coat Claude was about to remove. “So it really is just you and me, huh?”

“Just you and me! Considering Faerghus’s recent history with Sreng—”

“Right, the more people we bring, the more it looks like _another_ takeover.”

“See? You’re catching on already. Under my careful tutelage you may even make it out alive.”

They spent the rest of the day in a bit of a flurry, packing for the trip and crafting a letter that would please both Felix and Dimitri of Sylvain’s safety, while also informing them he would be out of contact for an unknown amount of time, in an unknown place, with unknown people, and their only way to reach him was through a girl on the other side of the continent that among them only Sylvain had ever been close to. There was no denying the challenge, but after a little arguing on _hints_ and _semantics_ they were both pleased with the final product.

And then, just like that, they were off for Sreng bright and early.

The trip itself was uneventful, and provided them mercifully ample time to discuss the details. Claude revealed that he had taken the liberty of setting up their first meeting at what amounted to the political center of Sreng (and was genuinely incredulous when Sylvain let slip that he had originally intended to just _walk in_). After that conversation, Claude had launched into a rigorous rundown of basic safety practices to follow: Don’t eat or drink anything he’s given unless he can see others being served from the same vessel, stick by each other’s side whenever possible, and never let his weapon out of sight. Sylvain wanted to argue the last point, that they were on a peace mission, but there was no discussion to be had. The Lance of Ruin was apparently vital to Claude’s approach, “_and besides,_” he had said, “_dead men can’t sign peace treaties._”

——

As it turned out, there was no need to worry about standing out with weapons strapped to their backs. Their arrival was met with little fanfare at all, and every other person in sight looked ready to battle at a moment’s notice, in spite of the settlement being as much a trade center as a political one. The energy as they walked through the marketplace was amazing, the kind of thing Sylvain went out of his way to find in Faerghus; energetic and bustling, voices all around shouting and laughing and arguing over prices, the people swathed in clothes of bright, distinct colors.

In spite of himself, Sylvain peeked in at a few stalls, getting glowers from the locals before he extracted himself carefully again. “I wonder if there’s anything Faerghus has that they’d wanna trade for, I’ve never even heard of some of these crops!”

Beside him, Claude shook his head, though he had been taking in the scene with just as much ardent curiosity. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Gautier, they don’t even like you yet.”

As if on cue, as Sylvain turned to tell Claude _yes, obviously, but a little optimism didn’t hurt anybody_, his eyes caught on a statuesque woman in deep crismon that he had seen before. She was near as tall as Sylvain, with wispy light hair that had always seemed at odds with her fierce eyes— and fiercer battle. Sylvain’s expression lit up and he grinned broadly as their eyes met, and she approached the duo with a decisive stride. “Hey, fancy seeing you here—”

He was cut off by a wave of her hand and narrowed eyes. “Sylvain Gautier. You are looking… unfortunately whole.”

“And let me express my _deepest_ regrets that I don’t have anything more than a broken shield to remember you by! Fighting you was such a thrill, my friends are all sick of hearing about it.” In his peripheral, he saw Claude take a slight step to the side, observing carefully this unexpected addition.

The Srengi woman sniffed derisively at Sylvain’s enthusiasm. “So the rumors of _peace talks_ were true,” the way she spat the words said just how she felt on the matter. “I wanted your arm, but you’ve brought me the whole body. What makes you think you’ll be leaving in one piece, if at all?”

Claude’s interjecting voice seemed to surprise her, and Sylvain swallowed what he had been about to say as well, “We haven’t met. I’m Claude von Riegan, I’ll be representing Faerghus alongside Margrave Gautier. Will you be participating in the negotiations?” His extended hand in greeting went ignored, something he had clearly expected, as the woman stared him down for a long moment.

“Saran.” Well, her name was more than Sylvain had ever gotten out of her, so that was _something_. “The building in the center has your accommodations. They’ll be expecting you.” And just like that, she was gone, confident stride leading her in the opposite direction.

Once she was out of sight, Sylvain said, “I had it handled.”

“Sure. So did I. What’d she want your arm for, exactly?”

“Oh, just cutting it off. I hope.”

“Fantastic.”

Following Saran’s rather vague directions, it was only a few minutes before they had found where she had aimed them, a large stone building covered in banners of all colors that stood out in stark contrast to the tents and stalls set up all around it. As soon as they entered, they were greeted by a bored-looking young man wearing a vibrant green who introduced himself as Yesugei and spent several minutes searching piles of paper before finally offering a curt, “This way.”

The inner walls were made of stone bricks as well, and Sylvain found himself wondering how they kept warm. The weather wasn’t yet terrible outside, but it was better still inside; they would be able to take off their thick coats without worry. Before he could ask, however, Yesugei had deposited them in their room with as few words as possible, informing them the leaders of the relevant clans would arrive in a few days’ time, and they were welcome to keep to themselves until such a time they were needed.

“Honestly, I didn’t think they’d actually give us a place to sleep,” Sylvain noted offhand after their charming host had left them alone. “Though it’s certainly a unique choice to leave us with just the one room.” And the single large bed set squarely in the middle, obviously intended to hold the both of them.

“Don’t tell me you’re shy, Gautier,” Claude teased. “This is for the best, actually. Now we don’t have to come up with an excuse to keep an eye on each other, we can just sleep in shifts. You know, in case your friend Saran, or anyone else like her, decides to handle things themselves.”

Sylvain sighed overdramatically. “I just like to hope that my first time sharing a bed with anyone, it’s an _offer_ instead of a requirement. If you kick, I reserve the right to kick back.”

And after such a lengthy trip, it didn’t take long for them to settle in for the night, Sylvain offering to take the first shift awake. There was nothing much to talk about that they hadn’t covered twice over on their way here, so the room quickly fell silent, Claude attempting sleep while Sylvain wandered the room a bit, taking in what they had been provided. It was well-furnished, with a small table to take meals at and multiple bookshelves (with large holes where several tomes had been removed prior to their arrival). And, as he suspected, even as the sun went down the chill of the outside could never quite get a hold. Plucking one of the remaining books from a shelf, he did his best to get comfortable next to Claude’s sleeping form.

Of course Sylvain had shared a bed.. _countless_ times before, most for obvious escapades, but sometimes by request as innocent as this. Listening to the even breathing next to him, his mind wandered to his academy days, Dimitri entering his room in a flustered state after catching the eye of a girl too well, and asking a bit desperately to hide there a few nights. Sylvain’s bed had been quite a bit smaller than this one, his proximity to his prince much closer, and he hadn’t had any choice but to take in how peaceful, soft, warm Dimitri looked in his sleep. He could never forget the way his heart had fluttered, just a little, when he’d woken up to see the dozing Dimitri framed by morning sunlight.

With a warm smile, he glanced over at the back of Claude’s head, turned away from him. For such an apparently distrusting person, he’d fallen asleep pretty quickly; Sylvain had no doubt the man would spring to life in an instant at any sign of danger, but for now, to have Claude in the same position Dimitri had been in all those years ago, to be trusted in any capacity… it felt nice.

——

It was two nights more before the rest of the clan leaders had arrived, a much larger gathering than even Claude had anticipated. When the first meeting started, including Sylvain and Claude they numbered a total of twenty-six people, all with their own goals and feelings on the fact that the meeting was happening at all, that a son of Gautier was being welcomed into their land freely. All of them had been alive at the time of annexation, cutting their territory in half, and some of them had even been leaders back then, too. It was a complex situation, and after hours upon hours of debate between the clans, Claude had not yet been given the chance to even state his intentions.

Sighing as everyone shuffled to leave at the end of the day, Sylvain asked quietly, “Is this typical? You don’t look half as dejected as I feel.”

“About as bad as any Alliance meeting,” Claude laughed. “Tomorrow might be like this too. See it as a good thing— if they’d come together with a united front from the start, we’d have a lot harder time getting through to them.”

“I guess, I’m just—”

Sylvain’s thought was cut off by the arrival of a stern-looking woman beside Claude’s chair, who put a hand on his shoulder. “You were the one who contacted me, yes?” she asked Claude, eyes roaming over Sylvain briefly. Whatever she was thinking, he couldn’t read it, though he noted with some interest that she was wearing the same bright green of Yesugei.

“Ah, you must be Mother Odval! Thank you for having us, I look forward to a productive conference.”

“That is what I wished to speak with you about. Privately.”

Her words included a pointed look at Sylvain, which he took gracefully, standing up at the same time as Claude. “I’ll meet you back at the room.”

Claude made no move to argue at being taken Odval’s direction, but his nod at the Lance of Ruin still strapped to Sylvain’s back said _be safe_ plainly enough. Shouldn’t Claude be the one worried, getting dragged off somewhere private by a woman three times his age who could definitely snap him in half?

Sylvain didn’t have long to worry about his companion’s fate, however, as he turned and almost ran headlong into Saran himself. “Oh! I was happy to see you in the meeting, Saran, I thought you might skip it entirely!” She had actually been considerably quieter than he had expected, looking calm, contemplative, perhaps what he should have expected from her exacting brutality on the battlefield. But still, to not hear any protest the way many (_many_) others protested was its own surprise.

Her long, silent stare might have been meant to unnerve him, he thought, but unfortunately for her he’d stopped being unnerved by things a long time ago. When he continued to meet her gaze with no sign of buckling or even effort, she finally relinquished, tugging at his arm as she turned away. “We should talk.”

_Oh_. Alright. Sylvain didn’t have much choice in the matter, no Claude to skillfully extract him this time, so instead he followed along obediently as she brought him to a small room to the side of the massive conference table, door closing decisively behind them. The room itself was nothing special, just a smaller place to have private meetings, with a desk and bookshelf to keep them company. Saran perched on the edge of the desk before speaking. “Sylvain Gautier. I believe I was too hasty in my original judgement.”

He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that, actually. Not looking to give anything away, he offered only an “oh?” to push her forward.

“You are a powerful warrior. Battling you was a delight, one I have not found the likes of since. I had thought, if there were peace, I would not ever cross axes with you again. But I have found a solution we can both enjoy.”

Had she been wearing makeup when they first met here? Or before then, on the battlefield, either? He had thought it was just for the conference, but as that old wriggling feeling settled in his gut, he began to wonder otherwise.

“I would take you as my husband.”

Ah.

“Saran— Mother Saran, isn’t it?” Shit shit shit, rejecting women well had never been his strong suit, he had never once been successful in the ‘let’s stay friends’ route, really more of a scorched earth policy if he was being honest with himself. “I’m flattered, really, and if circumstances were different I would maybe be able to take you up on that.. _very_ generous offer, but—”

She approached him quickly, and his hand twitched for his lance, but her own weapon was not loosed. Instead, Saran’s hands rested on his chest as she got close, closer, until their faces were almost touching. “If you want peace, you should do it. In my clan, husband and wife battle on their wedding day, it’s quite exciting.”

“Th-thank you, that does sound fun, but I don’t think I can form an alliance with just one clan, not without getting everyone else’s approval anyway,” he didn’t realize he had been backing up until his back hit the bookshelf softly, and Saran had still given him no room to breathe.

“We can worry about that later,” he could feel her breath on his lips, he had nowhere to run— he turned his head at the last second as she tried to kiss him, a strange tingling at the corner of his mouth where she made contact anyway, and he gently pushed her away by the arms.

“Bring it up at the conference, and we’ll consider it, okay? I’m not saying no, just.. not like this.” Fuck fuck fuck. For the first time since entering the room, she looked truly disgruntled. Claude was going to kill him for fucking it up this bad this early.

He managed to extract himself fully, though, leaving a huffing Saran behind as he exited. He had promised to meet Claude back at the room, but as he entered the main room again, he was waved down and they started to walk together.

“You’ve got something on your face,” Claude said as soon as they were out of earshot, tone suitably disappointed. “You know, I really _didn’t_ believe all those rumors about you…”

Wiping at the lipstick stain on the corner of his mouth, Sylvain could feel himself flush with embarrassment. To make a fool out of himself in front of Claude of all people… “It’s not what it looks like. She came onto me pretty hard, and, and I didn’t _do_ anything.” He sighed, a strangely tight feeling in his chest. This wasn’t even a situation he was _unused_ to, but he felt physically ill… “It probably got a lot more complicated now. I’m sorry.”

“Complicated? Just what _happened_?”

He stumbled a bit. “I.. she wanted to marry me. Political marriage.” Why was his heart clenching so much? Why did it hurt? “I said we should.. you know, get approval, but she just kept getting closer…” He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. “Claude, something’s wr…”

The world spun around him. He was vaguely aware of a faraway shout, Claude catching him before he hit the ground, and then everything went dark. 


	2. Chapter 2

“..unshine..”

The voice just barely broke through the haze of incoherent pain, not a strange dream this time, something real to grasp onto. Weakly, eyes still closed, Sylvain asked quietly, “what?” The word was nearly smothered in his pillow.

“_Good morning, Sunshine,_” Claude repeated, voice soft above him, and Sylvain finally pried his eyes open, flinching at the light. Big green eyes stared back down at him, filled with something between worry and relief. “Almost thought we’d lost you there. You’ve been out of it all night.”

He reached for some words, anything, but it felt like his head was twisting around itself until all that came out was, “poison?”

To his credit, Claude chuckled, retrieving a wet cloth from somewhere and placing it on Sylvain’s burning forehead. “Yeah. Poison. Now I’m sorry to spring this on you as soon as you wake up, but it’s important: Who did this? You only referred to _her_ vaguely before passing out.”

“Saran, it was Saran, I think. I was with you til then.”

“Poisoned lipstick from someone who already said she wanted you dead? Really? If this wasn’t a life or death situation, I might have to make fun of you.”

_Life or death_. Of course. If he had reacted so strongly, so quickly to just a taste of the poison, there was no telling what would have happened if he’d gotten a full dose… “It still hurts,” he mused, “if we don’t know the poison, we don’t know the antidote, right?”

“Awfully calm to be considering your own death. ...It’s true that you aren’t out of the woods, and I can’t search for an antidote yet without putting you more at risk.”

“Damn it.. if I was going to die anyway, I should have at least let her suck me off first.”

“There, there,” he patted Sylvain’s shoulder comfortingly, “if it looks like you’re about to die, _I’ll_ suck you off.”

“Thanks, Claude. You’re a real friend. Did you know you have gorgeous eyes?”

“Alright,” he laughed, “don’t make me regret keeping you alive. We need a plan, an assassination attempt on the first day doesn’t bode well for our negotiations, but as long as you pull through, it doesn’t have to be the end.”

“You think,” Sylvain paused as another wave of pain gripped his head, blocking out coherent thought for a moment, and tried to get his words in order again. “You think she was working alone?”

“You were there yesterday. A lot of clans opposed working with us, but a lot of them wanted to try, too. They wouldn’t have put on such a show just to try to kill you.”

“What about Odval?”

Claude paused at that, thinking it over seriously. “I don’t know. She was the one who insisted we were separated… We’ll put her under a soft _who knows_.” Sylvain raised an eyebrow, and he appended, “I’m not saying she’s in the clear, but I’m not ready to write her off just yet, either. Sometimes you have to just go with your gut… and a good dose of caution.”

It was the kind of argument Sylvain would make himself, honestly, so he couldn’t refute it— in this, he had to trust Claude’s judgement. “Who else, then?”

“I don’t think we can just guess at it, not when we’ve barely met most of these people. I have an idea to figure it out, but I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“Try me.”

“How good an actor are you?”

Instantly, Sylvain knew what he had in mind, and sat upright with a cheery smile, cloth falling from his forehead into his lap. “I’ve never been better!” he laughed, “Certainly don’t feel _dead_.”

In spite of what Sylvain considered an impressive performance, Claude leaned back, taking him in carefully. “Kinda creepy!” he finally offered as assessment. “But how long can you keep it up? And just _why_ are you so good at that?”

Ignoring the second question wholesale, Sylvain took stock, letting his face fall grim once more. “Hm… if the pain keeps up like this, probably a couple hours. After that I can’t promise I won’t falter here and there, but I’m up to the challenge.”

“Lay down.” Sylvain did, a bit sheepish at Claude’s tone. “I think I can get you out of staying the whole conference, what matters is that you’re the last to arrive so I can get a good look at everyone’s faces when they see you alive and well. It’s not perfect—”

“But it’s a start. I’ll do whatever I have to, I’ve faked it through worse.” He half-expected another probing question at that, but instead he got a determined nod.

“Get some rest. I’ll be back to wake you up before it’s time to go.” He stood and bundled himself up in his multiple layers, giving a chipper, “And try not to die this time!” before he exited, leaving Sylvain alone once more.

He cursed himself quietly; hopefully Claude wasn’t forgetting that he was just as much a potential target in this.

——

The pain hadn’t subsided any by the time the conference was set to reconvene, and though he hadn’t asked, a part of Sylvain was disappointed that Claude hadn’t returned with some kind of painkiller to ease the acting process. He took several moments to gather himself before leaving their room, traversing empty halls to the sure to be crowded conference room. Claude had gone on ahead, and the rather simplistic plan was now in motion.

When Sylvain entered, his eyes trained on Saran immediately, and he saw a flash of genuine surprise when their eyes met. He gave her a smile, even a small wave for good measure— maybe an excess, but if the poison had truly _failed_ as they intended to show, it made sense for him to treat her as if she still wanted to marry him for peace. Claude had eyes on the rest of the room, but Sylvain’s job was this: to figure out exactly how much Saran had expected it to work. _Pretty conclusively_, it turned out.

That was good, he thought. Hopefully Claude would be able to pick out their enemies easier, and as he sat down, Sylvain did a sweep of the room too. Even though the initial surprise had surely worn off, there were a handful of openly displeased faces at the sight of him— bad actors, or just generally sick of him? He took down a mental list, noting the colors of their clan’s clothing when he didn’t know names; more to discuss later.

And then they started day two.

“Sylvain Gautier.” It was Odval who started, the first time in the entire conference he had been addressed directly without it being to spit vitriol at him. “We know you seek a peace treaty. I have been told there is more you have to offer.”

“Thank you, Mother Odval,” his surprise at being given the floor was obvious as he stood to speak, and he could see Claude tense up a bit in his peripheral. Couldn’t blame him, really, but this was what Sylvain had come here to do, and all thoughts of the pain coursing through his body faded as he addressed the room. “I am well aware of what Faerghus has done to Sreng in living memory. Needless, bloody conquest, in my own lifetime. And I have lived on that conquered land since, as a son of Gautier. I understand that peace can’t be considered when Faerghus has cut your land and resources in half, and taken many lives in the process.” He paused, looked over the gathered faces, from attentive listening to set distaste to mild fury. “There are colors of clans I saw in my youth that I don’t see today. The meaning of that doesn’t escape me. I’m sorry.”

“You wish us to believe that you have come all this way to _apologize?_” A middle-aged man spoke up, Sylvain placed him as Janggi, wearing a rich indigo. He had been quite vocal yesterday as well, but only ever as a contrarian. It was impossible to get a feeling of his actual position, but at least he got people talking.

“No, Father Janggi. I have come to offer the return of the southern half of Sreng.”

There was a beat of silence, and then several people started speaking at once, and quickly Sylvain could tell his voice was no longer the important one. Sitting back down, a wave of exhaustion washed over him; in the hubbub he could only hope his shortness of breath went unnoticed.

“I have to say,” Claude’s voice was quiet next to him, meant just for Sylvain, “you make laying out everything you’ve ever done wrong look almost charming.”

Once again, with twenty-four other voices in the room, Sylvain and Claude fell by the wayside, offering their input only when asked, and Sylvain was able to focus more on keeping his act pristine again. He caught Saran staring intently at him more than once, gave her little friendly waves, and refused to falter. So far as she knew, he was totally unaffected, her poison useless, and he had no idea she wanted him dead. So far as she knew, he was still waiting for her to bring up political marriage as an option.

It wasn’t getting any easier, though. His body wasn’t taking well to the extended acting, the pain and trouble breathing getting steadily more intense as time went on— at one point, he felt Claude’s hand on his lower back, centering him in a moment when his mask almost slipped. Finally, a few hours into the conference, Sylvain was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger with a letter. A ray of hope, and when he opened it to see Claude’s handwriting, he picked up on the plan.

He read it over, a standard enough issue in Gautier territory that would require his immediate attention, but not his physical return. Next to him, he heard barely a whisper, “_Show it to me._” So he did, and Claude’s eyes roamed the page a few moments before he nodded, raising a hand to draw attention to himself. “A matter has come up with House Gautier, and my companion will need to take his leave for the day. I have full authority to speak in his stead, so please continue as normal.”

Sylvain offered a short apology to the ensemble, thanked Claude for his assistance, and left. By the time the door to their room closed behind him, he nearly collapsed on the floor with a short gasp, reminded with visceral clarity that this poison had still been intended to kill him, and still may be successful. He kept waiting for it to wane, to run its natural course, but Sylvain’s knowledge of poisons was non-existent… and Claude had seemed worried.

As he always did when his life was in danger, he thought of Felix. Usually, it was a simple answer: For Felix, he couldn’t make the heroic sacrificial save he wanted to. For Felix, he couldn’t take that shortcut that would probably kill him. For Felix… what? He couldn’t die from poison that had already been administered? He shouldn’t have come at all?

That thought clutched at his heart independently of the physical pains, and he climbed back into bed, an unfamiliar lump in his throat. Felix had trusted Sylvain with the danger of coming to Sreng, but a part of him had known it could mean death. Sylvain wasn’t afraid to die, but he couldn’t let Felix be right about someone he loved dying pointlessly. Not again. He had to stay alive, somehow, _somehow, for Felix…_

——

There were blurs of action in his bouts of coherency. He remembered the sting of a hand on his cheek to wake him, a barely-masked frenetic tone that filled him with dread as some kind of thick powder was poured down his throat. He coughed, choked, forced it down. He remembered opening his eyes to the dark of the middle of the night, with a low-burned candle illuminating Claude’s barely-conscious face where he sat next to the bed. He remembered the sound of pacing, soft footfalls in the same pattern, again and again.

And when he woke up, he could breathe again, deeply, painlessly— or rather, all the pain had been relegated to his head, as he discovered when he opened his eyes, but something had definitely changed. “Claude.” His voice croaked, but Claude’s head snapped up from his book anyway. “You look like shit. Have you slept?”

The huff of laughter Claude let out didn’t feel especially mirthful, but a ghost of smile had made its way to his face anyway. “You actually made it, you unkillable bastard.”

——

In spite of Sylvain’s many complaints, Claude insisted on getting him both up to speed and up to a certain level of health before he would rest for himself. Water, a fresh meal — “I was gonna get you some painkillers but I figured you deserved to suffer a bit.” “Yeah, you’re probably right.” “_Sylvain_. That was a _joke_. Sreng doesn’t believe in painkillers.” — and the last of the powdered antidote which was, as it turned out, just as hard to get down while fully conscious. Apparently Sylvain had given Claude even more of a scare than the first round, his breathing sometimes so shallow it might have stopped entirely.

Sylvain apologized, but was waved off. All that mattered was that he was alive. And, as a bonus, this incident hadn’t actually hurt their negotiations any; the conference was still on track, with a three day break as Father Chagadai had fallen unexpectedly ill. Sylvain had raised a questioning eyebrow at that, but the lack of answer said enough. He wouldn’t turn down a gift of rest, _for both of them_.

And then it was Sylvain’s turn to not accept no for an answer, Claude reluctantly confirmed that he hadn’t slept properly in a full two days now and was accordingly forced into bed himself after the sheets had been freshened up a bit, while Sylvain ignored his lingering headache and kept vigil.

There had to be some way to make this up to Claude, all the work and worry and every close call, holding the conference on his shoulders while Sylvain fucked around being poisoned. Less than a week in Sreng, and Sylvain had already almost ruined everything multiple times. Claude had nothing to gain here, and everything to lose.

He resolved to give Claude an out, once they were both on their feet again. To thank him for all he had done and promise to keep his word on Almyra, then send him on his way.

——

“Look, in light of everything that’s happened so far, I wanted to make sure you didn’t feel—”

“Stop.”

“—what?”

“I’m not leaving. Your proposal might actually work. People were hiding it well, and obviously don’t trust you to stand by your word yet, but they were _excited_. That big apology actually did the trick, once it was backed up by something actionable. For being about to keel over, you took a big step yesterday. I’m not leaving without seeing where this goes, and you can’t make me. So swallow that guilt and get used to us being bedfellows.”

There was no room for argument. A bigger part of him than Sylvain wanted to admit was immensely relieved for that.

——

The trouble of _rest_ was that it quickly got boring. As the worst of Sylvain’s lingering headache went from screaming to a dull roar to a mild annoyance, he and Claude had both exhausted the few books they had been allowed and discussed the topics therein, trying to suss out which were fiction or non-fiction or some mixture of both, telling history in a palatable way. When all they had left were some dictionaries and children’s books that had surely been left as an insult (they had read them, but found the stories to be a bit too _intentionally_ bland), Sylvain made a lucky discovery in his daily trip to the surrounding marketplace.

Presenting Claude with the ornately-carved chess set triumphantly, he got an appreciative whistle. “So you’ve decided to woo the locals with your money, after all.”

Sylvain grinned. “Something like that. You wanna play? We can make it interesting.”

Claude’s eyes narrowed, but not in suspicion. “Alright, Gautier, you have my attention. What do you have in mind?”

“We play for secrets. If I win, I get to ask you a question and get a real answer. If you win, same thing.”

“Secrets, huh? Just what are you up to?”

“Not much! I am aware this is stacked _heavily_ against me, but I know you’re curious and I think your secrets are probably more valuable anyway. It balances out.”

There was a pause that lasted a little too long, and Sylvain wondered if he’d crossed a line by flat-out asking for secrets, and then Claude shrugged. “Consider me suspicious. I play white.”

Sylvain had intended to have a few tricks up his sleeve, but their first game he played straight: He had no idea what he was up against, except that Claude was smart, and prepared for all possible outcomes, with backup plans for his backup plans, which he suspected (rightfully) made for an absolute _beast_ of a chess player. Whether Claude was showing off or Sylvain was just out of practice from only playing against a reluctant Felix for the past half decade, it was a slaughter.

“Damn. You know, you could have just _let_ me die,” he joked, and Claude’s laugh at that was the first real one Sylvain had heard in days. It brought a warm relief to his chest that fully outweighed any faked upset over losing so conclusively. It was good to hear Claude laugh. Sylvain sighed overdramatically, and said, “Alright, a deal’s a deal, what do you wanna know?”

“I’ll be nice— you tell _me_ what you want me to know.”

It was smart, but suggested something Sylvain wasn’t sure he liked; that he had set up this wager not just knowing he would spill some secrets, but _intending_ to. “If I had things I wanted you to know, it wouldn’t be interesting. I’d just tell you. But I will take this boon you’ve so graciously granted me.” He thought on it a moment, trying to decide what kind of secret he was okay with Claude knowing right out, but their surroundings were inspiration enough.

“So everyone knows my older brother was disowned, but the _why_ was always kept close to our chest.”

“Naturally. Can’t have noble business getting out.”

They surely both felt the unspoken irony there, that Miklan’s later, much more gruesome transformation into a demonic beast had been meant to stay secret, but the whole academy had been abuzz with it before the Lions had even returned from their mission.

“It was about… geez, ten years ago now? He’d always been the bastard son for not having a Crest— and for generally being a bastard, but that wasn’t enough to get him disowned. What did it was actually cooperating with Sreng.” Claude showed a look of genuine surprise, but politely kept his questions to himself. “More specifically, he struck a deal with one clan, snuck them deep into Gautier territory, and used them to raze an entire town. A lot of the little villages that weren’t on the border back then just.. didn’t have any soldiers. My dad didn’t see a need, said no one could get past our defenses.” A problem that had still gone unsolved until Sylvain had taken forceful control at the start of the war, incidentally. “Of course, the Srengi clan was also destroyed, down to the last man. My brother just used them, too, but obviously no one ever cared about that.” He shrugged, noncommittal. “It’s what got me started reading about Sreng, actually, but now I can see how shallow the few books in Fódlan really were.”

Claude looked him over, rolling around the new information in his head, then nodded. “Secret noted. That was fun, you wanna play again?”

“_Immediately._”

The second game, Sylvain put in a real effort, though it was hard to tell much difference in the end result. He didn’t mind— he knew what he was doing, and he’d always known it was going to take a few losses before he could net himself a win. He expected Claude to gloat some more now that the air of playful competition had fully set in, but instead, he took his winnings as soon as checkmate was declared. “Alright, Gautier, pony up. Why do you hide how smart you are? _Don’t—_” he cut Sylvain off before he could even open his mouth, “try any of this ‘_I’m not actually smart_’ stuff, you answer honestly or we stop playing.”

Sylvain grumbled a bit about the mocking voice being unnecessary, then took a moment to consider just what Claude meant. Obviously he hadn’t been holding back in their games, or at the conference; he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize this mission. “Mm… alright, I’m stumped. What is it I’m hiding?”

“I have been dying to know for years how Gautier and Fraldarius alone survived against the Empire, the Dukedom, and none too few Alliance lords as well. If I’m being totally honest, I never reached out to you two because I didn’t think you were going to make it. Every month I expected word that the last of the Kingdom had finally been finished off.”

Sylvain laughed, “Yeah, me too. I guess I can’t say I didn’t have some hand in it, but Felix was a big factor too. We’re a match set. If it had been me and any other Kingdom lord, except _maybe_ Dimitri himself, we wouldn’t have lasted two months. Same goes for Felix. Rodrigue helped too, but mostly in the organization aspect. He had the same problem as every other lord who fell: too experienced. He knew a lost cause when he saw one, and was ready to die for it as gloriously as he could manage. Not us, though!”

“So you got by on _a good attitude_.”

“Oh no, you’re right, the strategy involved was intensive. We just couldn’t have done it without the _exact_ circumstances we had. Felix is amazing at real-life battle plans that take advantage of the terrain, ambushes, and really brutal surprises. The trouble is, all his soldiers thought he was crazy.” A bark of laughter from Claude; Sylvain suspected he understood the sentiment from Felix’s side all too well. “So I was there to tweak it, and pitch it in a way that sounded achievable. Otherwise, my main contribution was just.. factoring in the people. I figured out how Cornelia worked, how Hubert strategized, how to stay alive and present for our people without being deemed too big a threat… Everybody gets all caught up looking at war maps and forgets there are real people on the front lines, you know? I’m not talking sappy, I know people die, I just mean you can’t forget that real people have flaws and hopes and entire personalities that’ll change how they plan and execute their war.”

He realized that Claude was leaning back comfortably, just watching and listening, and that he had gone on a bit too long. “That… didn’t really answer your question, huh?”

“Nope, but I _loved_ this. I’ll take it.”

_Shit_. Revealing how he strategized may have just screwed him over for the next dozen games. He sighed wistfully. “We can agree, right? Hubert would be a ton of fun to play against.”

Claude grinned, having survived against the same army Sylvain had for just as long. “That was a man who knew what worked and _stuck to it_. I wanna say it was his biggest weakness—”

“—but he always knew exactly what to pick! Totally brilliant. Shame he’s dead.”

“Shame.”

——

Father Chagadai recovered a bit faster than expected, and everyone was eager to reconvene, Claude and Sylvain most of all with their renewed vigor. Sylvain had no idea where it had come from, maybe Claude’s insistance on staying their current path, but there was a sense of hope in him that had been missing before. He felt less an observer as the rest of the conference decided if he was worth even hearing out, and more an active participant. He had answers to some questions, admitted ignorance to others, and for the first time, he could feel the progress being made. He didn’t think he could stop looking out for further assassination attempts anytime soon, but he also didn’t think he was being kept around just to kill, either.

The question of the day came down to trust. Why should they believe the Kingdom would hold to Sylvain’s offer? He followed Claude’s advice of putting up the front that King Blaiddyd had been directly involved in the decision, but it turned out they didn’t trust the word of a king they had never met any more than Sylvain’s.

“We are avoiding the most damning evidence.” Father Chagadai, incidentally, in a bad mood all day from his forced absence. “In under two years, Faerghus has grown from a third of Fódlan to the whole of it. This is not the behavior of a nation willing to part with even a corner of its territory.”

“I’ll take that one,” Claude offered amicably. “Surely you heard that the Alliance was freely given. The Empire started Fódlan’s civil war, and would not rest until they or everyone else were wiped out. The Kingdom under King Blaiddyd didn’t conquer anything, they accepted what they had to.”

“Freely given! _Ha!_” The harsh, forced laugh came from Saran, sounding triumphant that she had found something to argue confidently. “Next you’ll be saying our southern lands were _freely given_ as well.”

“You can ask for yourself, if you’d like. I know it was freely given, because I was the one who gave it.” There was a murmuring, but he didn’t let the moment slip. “I am Claude von Riegan. Former leader of the Alliance, and the one to orchestrate the rejoining of the Kingdom and Alliance for greater unity in Fódlan. King Blaiddyd only accepted my proposal.”

This time, it was Odval who spoke up, and the awe Sylvain had been experiencing thus far took a deep dip; her voice was well-respected, but she had been largely supportive til now. “Your companion is well-known to the border clans of Sreng, and bears the relic of Gautier as well. He is legitimate. Where, then, is your proof of the same? Where is _Failnaught_?”

It took a moment for Sylvain to even remember the answer— that Claude had _given it up_ before leaving Fódlan. Claude wasn’t rocked nearly so much, though there was some surprise in his tone that it was even questioned. “The relic weapons can be dangerous. It’s somewhere safe.” Though true, the answer earned him several sneers as the naysayers among the gathered leaders latched onto _proof_ of a _liar_.

At the end of the day, it was hard to tell where they stood. They were closer to an answer, surely, but were they closer to one they wanted?

——

Chess became a time for the two of them to unwind. They laughed, goaded each other on, and Claude’s questions after winning softened to the level of schoolyard gossip: first kiss, worst breakup, ever had his heart broken? He was toying with Sylvain, waiting for something juicier to come up. Waiting for Sylvain to finally eke out a win.

When he did, it was after a protracted battle ended with a sudden blitz, and Sylvain leaned back with a sigh that sounded genuinely exhausted. “Finally. Only seems fair, then: first one’s a gimme. What do you wanna tell me?”

“Well, you’ve earned it. My biggest secret. Did you know I’m half-Almyran?”

He ducked a pawn thrown over his head with a laugh. “Okay, okay, I won’t count ones you figured out on your own! It’s actually a bit more complicated than that anyway. You asked how involved I was in Almyran politics. Well, on my mother’s side, I was heir to Duke Riegan. And on my father’s.. I’m heir to the Almyran throne.”

“...Get out.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t lie to you after your glorious victory!”

Sylvain sat a moment, truly dumbfounded, as he tried to consider the immense implications of a single sentence. “But if you’re a prince in Almyra, why would you—”

“Ah-ah,” Claude wagged his finger with a wink. “You got your secret.”

“So should I be calling _you_ Your Highness?”

“_Oh_, I wish you wouldn’t.”

——

Claude’s hum of contentment across from him was getting to be a bit infuriating. It had been several games since Sylvain had first won, enough to count it a fluke even though they both knew that wasn’t the case, and Claude had taken to outright goading in that low, taunting voice. “You sure that’s the best move, Gautier?” he asked before Sylvain’s hand had moved from his knight, earning him a glower.

“It’s the only move I _have_.”

“Oh? Guess it is.”

The next few moves were in silence, an obvious conclusion to a surprisingly quick game.

Until.

“...Sylvain.”

“Claude.”

“_Sylvain_. What was that.”

A slow smile crept up his face. “That was checkmate, Claude.”

Sylvain allowed himself a moment of triumph as Claude parsed the final sneak maneuver he had pulled, managing a win with a majority of Claude’s pieces still in play. “...That was smart.”

“Thank you. It only took.. seven games to set up?” He laughed, and let out a fully contented sigh.

Claude looked like he wanted to ask something then, curious, but decided against it. “Your prize, then?”

“You’re the prince of Almyra. All of Almyra, by the sounds of it. Why did you agree to help me, when a border dispute between Gautier and Sreng means nothing to you?”

He let out a breath, as if the question was a bit too heavy. “And it _has_ to be the truth?” he joked to let off a bit of tension, leaning back to appear suddenly fascinated with the make of the ceiling. “It’s not really about Sreng. Sreng is the goal, of course, I want this to work, _we need this to work_, but… that naïve optimism of yours, when you said you wanted to give up your land for peace, that you thought it should be so _easy_… it was familiar. But I haven’t seen it in Fódlan, or in Almyra. Just you and me, Gautier.” He paused, and the significance of what he was saying sank in, but Sylvain kept quiet. “I know I could get people to listen to me, eventually. But you’re the first person I’ve met to actively _want_ it. How could I say no to that? To hope?”

Sylvain opened his mouth, but was only able to get out “Dimitri—” before he was cut off, the argument predicted.

“Dimitri and Dedue are doing fantastic work, and I’m really excited to see what they can do. That work, though, is born from unspeakable tragedy. You just woke up one day and _did_ it. Why?”

Sylvain frowned; he hadn’t been asked to consider it yet, and so he just.. hadn’t. Felix understood implicitly, how Sylvain’s mind worked. How his hands would wander after the war, and if they didn’t find something worthwhile to do, they would wring his own neck before long. That was probably a bit much to drop on Claude, though, so he went with a different way of saying the same truth. “I don’t know. I’ve never had much in the way of direction in life. I guess I just wanted something to believe in, and I really thought it would be impossible. I thought you’d tell me no, and I’d come away patting myself on the back just for finding you.”

“Then what? I told you no, and what?”

“...I would try anyway. Get myself killed. Pretty standard, as far as plans go.”

“Gautier, you absolute fool,” he blinked in confusion, and found Claude giving him a criminally soft smile, “giving away your secrets for free.”

——

Negotiations were at a stand-still— again. As if they had ever started.

Today’s point of contention was the same as it had been for days now, any time progress was made it was erased by the assertion that the Kingdom couldn’t be trusted, that the only evidence this wasn’t a disguised takeover lay in their trust of a man who couldn’t prove his heritage, nor his word.

Claude remained in good spirits for every accusation, apparently used to it, but under it Sylvain could spot little signs of frustration. Those who didn’t want to move forward would take any excuse, and this was the one they had latched onto.

It was Odval, again, who spoke to them: this time in private, but together. Sylvain was flattered to be considered worthy, but much more so glad to not be target to another murder attempt.

“You must bring Failnaught. If you are who you say, it should be simple. For this purpose, we will end the conference, and reconvene in a month. If you cannot produce your birthright in that time, there is nothing more we can do.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks everyone for a successful first few chapters! it really means a lot to me to go back and read the comments, it gives me the motivation i need to keep going! if you wanna see me lament the general lack of claudevain in the fandom and talk about dumb stuff between updates, you can find me on twitter @ howliish with two i’s!
> 
> please note this chapter will contain minor character death, minor animal death, and some descriptions of injuries / gore.

The exhaustion in the carriage ride out of Sreng was palpable. They had each independently decided not to talk about matters of Failnaught so long as they were around anyone who might overhear and carry their conversation where it wasn’t wanted, and the stress of that tension had worn them thin as they stopped talking altogether. Sylvain’s head was laid all the way back over the seat, staring up at the roof of the carriage with glazed over eyes as he tried to think of ways out of this, should the worst come to pass. _Think like Claude_, he told himself, _back up plans for back up plans._

But he wasn’t Claude. It was an odd thing to wrap his head around, but somehow he felt that Claude’s style demanded a certain _hopefulness_ that Sylvain had always been empty of. It was like Claude could see the other side of every conflict, clear as day, and he knew he could get there a winner as long as he had enough routes to travel. But when Sylvain tried to see the other side, he was only met with the vast dark ocean of uncertainty. Maybe that was his problem: He didn’t plan to win. He planned to make the other guy lose.

Claude himself sat across from him, hands folded, brow furrowed, deep in thoughts surely more productive than Sylvain’s own contemplations. It reminded Sylvain of how he looked around the middle of their more intense chess matches, when the moves were slow and careful, when the possibilities laid out before them were endless and every move could irrevocably tip the scales. It was, Sylvain thought, one of his more endearing expressions, and if Claude had seemed a more conceited man Sylvain might have actually thought it an intended distraction.

He’d lifted his head to take the sight in, expression blank, and whether by coincidence or because he felt Sylvain’s stare, Claude finally broke the silence.

“So. Do you happen to know what Teach did with it?” In spite of everything, Claude’s voice barely showed a hint of strain. Damn, he was good.

“With any luck, it’ll still be in the royal vault.” Sylvain was considerably more willing to show his exhaustion in his tone; at this point, he had to assume Claude knew anything he showed was a matter of trust through honesty. “After the war ended, Lady Rhea wanted to take all the relics back to the monastery, but Dimitri argued for keeping some. The Fraldarius shield, Annette’s hammer, Failnaught, all the ones we weren’t actively using but might need later.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Not that any of us have ever even considered using your bow. We don’t have conclusive evidence one way or another, if the _wrong_ crest could be as bad as no crest at all…” He trailed off too long, and covered it with a sigh. “Anyway, Byleth sided with Dimitri on that one, last I heard. So it should be in the capital instead of Garreg Mach.”

Something in the answer clearly hadn’t been what Claude wanted to hear, as he’d gone back to that deep contemplation. Sylvain was ready to leave him to it, but the silence didn’t last long. “It’s been… _difficult_ to get much information about the church lately. If they have it, what are the odds of us getting it back?”

In spite of his sour mood, Sylvain laughed. “Ah, shit... not great! We will have to lie a _lot_. Not that I really mind that.”

“So the boy from the _Holy_ Kingdom of Faerghus has no problem _lying_ to the church?” Claude’s tone was light, teasing, but there was some undercurrent there that Sylvain couldn’t get a grasp on. A question beneath the question that he didn’t want to ask.

Well, whatever it was, Claude was going to get his answer.

“Look… There’s a reason Fódlan is so closed off. There’s a reason our only interactions with other countries in _centuries_ were to fight them or take them over. Rhea may not be the archbishop anymore, but she still has Byleth’s ear. And if the church as it used to be has its way, Duscur will be the first and last peaceful exchange.”

Across from him, a low whistle. “...Not a fan of Rhea, then.”

“I dunno, it’s not like I’ve met her in any real way, I just know what her church does with the power it has. Or I like to think I do, anyway. And I know that the teachings of Seiros aren’t big on what we’re doing.”

Even though Sylvain thought he had just added a dozen more stressors to the table, Claude’s body language relaxed considerably, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “I really can’t say how relieved I am to partner up with the one guy in Faerghus who isn’t afraid of a little sacrilege.”

“Oh, yeah, ladies _love_ a bad boy.”

Instead of indulging Sylvain’s joke, Claude tilted his head a bit curiously, voice quiet in his sincerity. “I’m serious, you know. The more I learn about you, the more I like.”

Before Sylvain could respond, the carriage rocked, and then it exploded.

——

The heat of the burning carriage was immense against Sylvain’s back, in stark contrast to the cold of the hard-packed sand he’d landed on. The wind was knocked out of him, but the sound of Claude’s shout of pain sprang him to his feet in an instant, hand already wrapping around the Lance of Ruin. Claude was putting out the last of the fire that had burned away his right-arm sleeve, but Sylvain couldn’t spare a moment to grimace at the burn he could see underneath. They were under attack.

The overturned carriage was between them and their assailants, giving them precious few seconds. “I recognize Saran’s magic. Can you cover me with your arm like that?” No time for strategy, no time for backup plans, this was Sylvain’s time to shine.

Claude nodded, “I’ve got you,” but hissed in surprise when he picked up his silver-encased bow from too close to the fire— even through his glove, the grip was too hot, and he quickly wrapped scraps of his ruined sleeve around it to dampen the heat while Sylvain peeked over the least on-fire part of their cover, the sound of beating hooves getting closer.

It was times like these Sylvain could truly appreciate the eerie glow of the Lance of Ruin, the way pieces of it twitched of their own volition; it was not a monster on its own, just lifeless bone. Only when combined with his own crest, only when wielded by Sylvain, was it dangerous to anyone but the holder. And he had every intention of being dangerous now, launching himself over the wreckage just in time for Saran to swing down from her horse, axe brought to bear.

He could trust his relic, a sick irony he appreciated every time it saved his life (_whether he wanted it saved or not_). He caught Saran’s brutal downward swing with the body of the lance, sliding away from it in a maneuver he hadn’t practiced in years. He hated his relic, had switched to axes himself after Miklan’s death so he would never have to touch the thing that had created a monster (_it was nothing without Sylvain, it didn’t create monsters without Sylvain_). He swung for Saran’s feet— she hadn’t been expecting it, it was nothing like his axework, but she grabbed his overcoat and pulled him down with her and they hit the ground. Their weapons were trapped between them in a moment of tangled steel and bone and limbs. He had the upper hand, pulled up— heard a shout behind him and froze as an arrow flew right past his ear, and an instant later pain bloomed from his left shoulder as a sword was driven through it.

There was a second person with Saran. Sylvain had seen the man, robed in her same crimson, but Saran’s advance put too much pressure on him to divide his attention. As the sword was pulled from his muscle he twisted to see his attacker, he was caught, he was dead, this wasn’t like Saran she had _always fought fair_, he was dead for trusting the enemy, _again, again_. Another arrow flew, but this one struck true: The man’s hand was a sudden bloody mess as half his fingers disappeared and his sword fell to the sand. Sylvain took the opportunity to jab the butt of the lance at his chest, and he staggered backwards.

Saran rolled them both, but Sylvain broke free with a kick, and after a moment of confusion they were on their feet again. The angle allowed him to see the battlefield laid out before him, Saran’s back to the wagon, and to Claude— but he had his own problems, an enemy archer behind a dune on the other side, the two volleying arrows back and forth. Saran’s original ally had retreated, clutching his mangled hand, but Saran herself wouldn’t falter.

“You can try to kill me a dozen times, Saran. I’m not going to give up.” She made a sound at him somewhere between a curse and a furious snarl, and lunged at him again. _Well, worth a shot._

Once, nearly a year ago, she had almost taken off his arm. It was one of the most thrilling fights Sylvain had ever taken part in, something that made him truly appreciate what someone could _love_ about battle. Maybe if she had meant it, about a political marriage, it wouldn’t have been the worst thing. Maybe clashing against her on their wedding day would have brought some rush to him.

They exchanged a flurry of blows, her moves quicker than any axe-wielder had a right to be, as ever, their feet dancing across the frigid desert sands in tandem, every move could be their last.

Maybe if he’d done something for Sreng sooner, she wouldn’t hate him so much. Maybe she would. Maybe it was ridiculous to even entertain the dream of a loveless union for the sake of a better future.

She overswung, and for just a moment, her balance was off-center. Sylvain drove the Lance of Ruin forward, cut a shallow groove in her side, and used the momentum to knock her axe from her grip. They were both tired— two more quick strikes, and she was on the ground again, chest heaving, eyes burning, Sylvain’s lance pointed at her neck as he stood over her.

“Do it,” she spat. “You gutless coward, finish the job.”

“_Don’t_.” The interjection was from an equally-tired Claude, half-limping around the smoldering wagon, a strain of fear in his voice. Sylvain knew that fear. _Distrust._ It was fine.

“I won’t. It’s what she wants. I kill her here, whatever people she’s got left go back to the other tribes and tell them we’re murderers.” Her face contorted, and Sylvain let out a soft, mirthless laugh. He’d only been half-certain, but it wasn’t like he’d intended to kill her anyway. Shaking his head, he spun his lance around, knocking the side of her head with the blunt end instead. “She’ll have a nasty headache when she wakes up, but I can’t say I care that much.” He raised his voice to whatever crimson-wearing Srengi might be around, but addressed the one-handed swordsman most directly. “Take her. Go home. We’re not going to kill any of you we don’t have to.”

And they did. There was no fuss, no hassle, and Sylvain didn’t have to question why.

Their transportation was in ruins, the horse at the head of the cart killed in the blast. They were in the middle of an ice cold desert, with limited resources, in the beginning stages of winter. They were probably going to die anyway.

——

“Thanks for saving my ass back there. I.. I was stupid.” Sylvain didn’t want to get into his mistakes, not with Claude, not with anyone, but to ignore them entirely would be a disservice. “Your shot was amazing. Did that other archer run with the rest of them?”

Claude was leaned against their stacked packs as Sylvain looked over his wounds; even he’d had to admit he’d come out of the explosion in a state, while Sylvain had done fairly well for himself, shoulder wound aside. His expression was grim as he shook his head. “It was close. I had to kill them. I think I saw them in gray when the body was being taken, though.”

“Shit,” Sylvain said.

“Shit,” Claude agreed amicably.

“Who was that, Katayori? He’s got a pretty big tribe, that could be trouble.”

Claude shrugged the shoulder Sylvain wasn’t working on. “We knew they weren’t all on our side, at least now we know another enemy. Hey— are you sure we should be using our water for this?”

Sylvain didn’t stop his pouring, cleaning the areas where sand and burn had met, ignoring Claude’s little hisses of pain. “I’ve got good news and bad news, Claude. We’re not going to run out of water before we get out of this desert. We’ll freeze to death first.” He finished his work, and sighed. “Anyway, this was the driver’s waterskin. He, uh.. he survived the explosion, but I put him out of his misery.”

He moved away from the burned arm, to the barbed arrow still embedded in Claude’s thigh, and leaned close to examine the wound. “_And_ you’re gonna need new pants. Will the tragedies never end?” Sylvain’s joke did the work of relieving the tension somewhat, at least, but Claude was back to planning. What he thought he was planning, Sylvain didn’t know. And for the moment, mood dour, he didn’t much care. He knew their next course of action already, knew this desert and his own territory better than Claude ever could, and he knew their chances were slim. He knew they’d try anyway. For now, he was focused on what he _could_ fix.

“I’m gonna pull the arrow out. It’s gonna hurt like a bitch. Wanna hold my hand?”

Claude smiled, and took Sylvain’s offered hand. And as the barbed arrow twisted out of the hole in Claude’s thigh, he squeezed so hard Sylvain’s fingers started to tingle. The thick layers of Claude’s winterwear had saved them a good bit more pain, the barbs failing to dig into his actual muscle, stopped by the fabric, and it was that fabric Sylvain was pulling from the wound, but the hard metal had done its damage anyway. Once extracted, he tossed the offending arrow to the side, and his hand was released from Claude’s iron grip.

“You good?”

“I’m good. We’re not giving up.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m not allowed to give up that easy. I just want you to know the odds are.. bad.”

“But not zero!” How much of Claude’s cheery determination was genuine, and how much was forced for Sylvain’s benefit, he couldn’t say, but he appreciated the effort. Claude grabbed Sylvain’s hand and pulled himself up to his feet, testing his weight on the bad leg with a frown. “What’s the bad plan, then?”

“Easy enough: Walk home. It’s a straight shot to the nearest town over the border, and if we’re _very_ lucky, maybe we can make it before nightfall. It’s our only chance.”

“_Very_ lucky meaning we aren’t interrupted by another attack, we don’t get lost, and the sun takes its dear sweet time going down?”

Sylvain made a face. “I… hadn’t actually thought about getting attacked again. The odds are now extremely bad.” Claude raised a hand with a little smile, as if waiting for more. Sylvain rolled his eyes. “_But not zero._ Come on, Captain Cheer, let’s get somewhere warm.”

——

They’d been walking only half an hour in relative silence, a general consensus to conserve their energy for the trek ahead, when Sylvain suddenly stopped them, and slung his pack off his back. “Hold this for me.” He held it out and Claude obliged. “And put this on,” his heavier overcoat came off, Claude looking like he was going to argue, but there was no hiding his harsh shivering against the desert cold. Begrudgingly, he donned the coat, and offered Sylvain’s backpack in return. Instead, he was handed another burden: the Lance of Ruin. “Be careful with that one. Seriously. I know you _know_, but.. be careful.”

“Sylvain, what are you doing?” Claude finally asked, pulling the coat closer around himself.

“Carrying you. Get on my back, I’m barely hurt and you’ve got _two_ injuries slowing you down.”

“_Come on,_” Claude grumbled. He clearly wasn’t eager to be carried the whole way, but Sylvain trusted him to not let pride or anything else get in the way of their survival, and it only took a second for him to decide Sylvain was right about this being their best option. He maneuvered their backpacks and weapons, the lance now still and missing its telltale red glow, and finally let Sylvain get him into piggybacking position. “I’ll make it up to you.” Claude’s promise was quiet in Sylvain’s ear, but he shook his head.

“If we make it out of this alive, we’re even.”

——

If he hadn’t lived near this desert his whole life, it would have appeared impossibly empty. The idea that he knew where he was going felt almost laughable, but there were no landmarks beyond the dunes, no way to check his heading; by the time the stars came out to find north, it would be too late. All he had were his legs carrying him, and the warm weight against his back.

“Claude?”

“Mm?”

“Just making sure you’re alive.”

“A burn won’t kill me.”

“The weather might.”

——

“Claude?”

“You want me to keep talking?”

A beat of silence. “..that’d be nice.”

He could feel the weight on him shifting slightly, and the arm around his neck tightened just a little. “Why do you care so much more about me surviving than you?”

In spite of himself, Sylvain smiled. He wasn’t even sure where Claude had picked up that little tidbit, wasn’t sure what tell he’d given, but it didn’t matter. He was mostly just happy to not be the only one thinking about death right now. “Hey, that’s no fair,” he teased, “we didn’t even play.”

“Then you don’t have to tell the truth.”

It was a compelling argument. He couldn’t come up with a lie. “I thought I would be dead a long time ago. A long, _long_ time ago.” His voice was raspy; Claude offered one of their waterskins, and he drank. “I never even thought I’d make it to fifteen, let alone.. all this. I’m overdue.”

It was heavy stuff, heavier than he could have probably said to Claude or anyone else who didn’t already know, if he wasn’t so certain he was going to die anyway. It just felt natural, at this point. Claude shifted, returned the water to its strap, and hummed quietly. “Makes a lot of sense. Can I know why?”

For a moment, Sylvain considered it. He really, actually considered it. But when he opened his mouth again, what came out was “No.” Claude accepted it.

——

“Hey, all that stuff I said about Rhea…”

Claude’s light laughter tickled his neck, a warmth so unbearably pleasant that a significant part of Sylvain wanted to cry.

“I won’t rat you out, Gautier. You didn’t say anything I didn’t already know, I just… I’d given up on anyone else knowing it. You know, when I left, when I gave up Failnaught, I _was_ kind of giving up on Fódlan. The only people who seemed to agree with me were, well. Edelgard was slaughtering everyone, so calling her an ally wasn’t really an option.”

He chose to ignore the implications that agreeing with Edelgard on anything held. Otherwise, it wasn’t that difficult a concept to accept; Sylvain had seen the church’s ideals held as weapons at Dedue’s throat a thousand times, and he had never heard anyone else but Dimitri acknowledge the blatant lying going on, the purposeful subjugation of Duscur on false accusations. “Fódlan.. is pretty messed up.”

Another soft laugh, another small flame alight deep in Sylvain’s chest.

“Yeah, it’s pretty messed up. Not hopeless, though. Not anymore.”

——

The sky was getting dim.

Their aimless talks had faded out as exhaustion started to set in, Sylvain needing to conserve every breath he had to keep pushing one foot in front of the other. He’d stumbled once, twice, and thought it was the end. He could tell the cold was getting to Claude, and used to it or not, Sylvain was down a layer— it was getting to him too.

He was going too slow. At this rate, Claude was going to die.

He kept moving forward.

——

He didn’t remember crossing over the border between Sreng and Gautier territory. He didn’t remember seeing the first signs of life in town, the lamps long lit, the earliest risers already in bed but some few stragglers in the streets. But he remembered Claude being pulled from his back, and how he struggled against it, blearily clawed at the retreating warmth and elbowed someone in the chin even as blankets were piled around him, certain in his frozen consciousness that separation meant the end.

He slept fitfully, but that panic stayed in his heart. Sylvain woke up alone, and after a moment of confusion, he was able to place it as his own bed, in his own home. He’d been redressed at some point, an old set of pajamas he’d never much liked, kept tucked in the back of his wardrobe— a gift from an ex who now lived… near the entrance to town. The dots connected easily enough, and he tried to make a mental note to thank Linnea later, but most of his mind was occupied by a very vital question.

As he stood, his muscles protested, overstrained as they were from the long walk, and he even discovered a broken toe or two the hard way, but neither deterred his path through his home, searching every room quickly, too worried that if he called out, he wouldn’t get an answer.

But he didn’t have to. As he approached the nearest guest room, the door opened, and before Claude could fully exit Sylvain had wrapped him tightly in a hug, face buried in his dark, messy hair.

Claude didn’t move for a moment, and then Sylvain felt a hand on his back, rubbing softly. “..yeah. Me too.” The breath he let out was just a little shaky. “That got kinda scary, huh? I don’t even know when I passed out.”

“Hour or two before we got to town, I think. I dunno.” It took a beat longer before Sylvain could let go, separating carefully, but his hand stayed loosely on Claude’s good shoulder. “How’s your arm?”

He shrugged. “It hurts. But like I said, a burn won’t kill me.”

The fear had subsided somewhat, though a part of Sylvain still couldn’t stand the thought of letting Claude out of his sight. It was irrational, he knew, nothing he would act on— just a feeling that had settled deep in his gut over the course of the previous day, and couldn’t be easily routed.

With no small effort, he finally dropped his hand to break contact with Claude, and offered a weak smile. “Linnea’s a real sweetheart, but did she have to find you the _biggest_ set of pajamas I owned?” It was hyperbole, but the difference in height that had been negligible while Claude borrowed his coat was certainly more pronounced in bedclothes, an observation that earned him little more than a sigh; they were both too tired to play properly, which Sylvain didn’t really mind.

He offered to make breakfast, and Claude had no objections. Sylvain was probably in too bad a state to be putting in that much energy, but he did it anyway, standing zoned out in front of the stove as he slowly stirred, both silent. It was an unspoken agreement that the hubbub of other people was the last thing they wanted to deal with right now. This quiet, this certainty that they were both alive and only mostly banged up, was plenty.

By the time Sylvain had put the two plates on the table and sat down, he wanted to go back to bed. He sat down at the corner next to Claude, laid his head on his folded arms, and considered doing just that. But before he could let any breakfast-time naps overtake him, he felt a soft nudge against his leg, and glanced up.

“Hey. This is pretty good. You should eat up.” Sylvain hummed a quiet agreement, but didn’t move. Once again, those bright green eyes hovered over him, like some sort of siren song calling him not to his death but back to the life he had yet failed to leave behind. “Sylvain…” Claude sighed softly. “I’m glad you’re still alive.”

Sylvain nodded without lifting his head, and spoke into his sleeve, but the repeated words came through fine. “I’m glad you’re still alive.”

He pulled himself up, and they started to eat. It seemed some small favor of fate, that when the ruckus outside came, it had the decency to wait until Claude had taken their plates to the sink to clean rather than interrupt the meal outright.

——

“Syl_vain!_”

It amazed Sylvain, sometimes, how Felix could be the most subtle, well-spoken, quiet man he had ever met, and other times, his shouting could be heard down the street.

“Hey, Felix. I missed you.”

Sylvain had stood, fully intending to hug Felix as soon as he’d seen the front door burst open, but Felix had other plans. He advanced on Sylvain, jabbing his finger into his chest as he berated him. “_Don’t_. Don’t you _fucking_ dare.”

“Careful, I’ve got some broken toes.”

“I’ll break the rest,” Felix spat, which was about as good as Sylvain had expected that to go. “First you send a cryptic letter with more riddles than details. Then my only way to supposedly reach you is through a girl who takes some _sick delight_ in denying me information.”

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Claude fight back a snicker, but not well enough, as Felix rounded on him instead. “And _you._”

“..Wait, what? What did I do?” Claude asked, truly incredulous.

“You show back up in Fódlan after _how_ long? And it’s to deliver Sylvain back to us after a month, _half dead!_”

“That— was _clearly_ not the intention,” Claude started, but he was not used to the Felix brand of arguing, wouldn’t stand a chance.

It was Sylvain’s turn to interrupt, pulling on Felix’s arm to get his attention back, voice quiet and earnest, “_Felix._” He slid his hands down to envelop one of Felix’s own, rubbing the back of it softly. “I’m sorry.” Felix was softened, just a little. It helped. Every time Sylvain got hurt, risked his life, barely scraped by, a part of Felix needed to know. He had to know it wasn’t intentional, wasn’t an attempt at making good on their promise too early. The apology helped, but Sylvain could see it wasn’t enough to quell his rage entirely. “I promise, I did everything I could.”

“I _know_, Sylvain.” Well, that hadn’t worked. If anything, Felix’s tone was harsher, the necessary fury giving way to genuine anger that wouldn’t be swept away. “I know you. You wouldn’t bring someone else on a suicide mission.” Sylvain tensed— it was too personal to be spoken so plainly in front of Claude, but Felix had never been good at secrets. “Which means you were just stupid.”

He sighed, giving up. “Yeah. I was.”

It took another few minutes for Felix to get out the worst of his complaints, but as Sylvain had suspected, the true anger wasn’t going to leave any time soon. Every little injury he spotted on Sylvain just served to reignite the flames, and the sword wound on his shoulder launched Felix into another full tirade. Sylvain glanced to Claude for help during the worst of it, but Claude seemed perfectly happy to stay out of this one and let Sylvain take his beating.

——

A significant part of Claude had hoped Felix would leave. He had grown quite comfortable with Sylvain’s company in the past month or so, could appreciate the nuances; he had a singular talent for reading the room and setting his own energy accordingly. He was a good actor, sure— but that wasn’t it. When Claude was sick of a glum atmosphere, Sylvain was quick to joke around, shift the energy… buy a chess set and play a ridiculous game that tempted Claude’s endless hunger for information. But when he just needed to stew, once again Sylvain was there for it, never overbearing and rarely all that annoying. Good or bad moods, Sylvain seemed to pick up on them immediately, and adjust himself effortlessly.

Felix, not so much. He wasn’t all bad, but Claude suspected he would be far _less_ bad if he wasn’t spending his entire time in the Gautier residence pissed off. Most of his anger was directed at Sylvain, a dynamic Claude was quickly picking up on and had decided instantly to stay far away from, but that didn’t save Claude from the glares. _If looks could kill._

Altogether, it had made their recovery a bit more excitable than Claude would have liked. He’d been looking forward to a few quiet days of downtime, a few chess matches, maybe even sneaking in a night of drinking now that they weren’t deep in enemy territory. For all their misery lately, it would be nice if he could get Sylvain to lighten up a little. Instead, Sylvain had spent a day and a half groveling, to the point that even Felix looked sick of it.

And Claude, who disagreed wholeheartedly with everything Sylvain was apologizing for, was _very_ sick of it by the time he managed to get Felix alone.

Claude had no sooner sat down in the chair nearby Felix’s perch on the couch, stirring his tea casually, when Felix said, “He’s smarter than he looks.” Straight to the point, but he sounded almost bored. He didn’t even put down his book. Claude was starting to understand why these two got along.

“I know,” he replied evenly, holding his tongue for the moment; if Felix wanted to take the initiative, so be it.

“He’ll know you sent him out just to get me alone.”

“I know.”

“Next time, you could try ‘Felix, I would like to speak to you.’”

Claude raised an eyebrow. “Would you have said yes?”

“No.”

“Great! I’m gonna talk to you anyway.” The twist to Felix’s mouth said he had hoped otherwise. As if Claude could be deterred so easily. “You don’t seem much for small talk, so I’ll get right to it: You know Sylvain better than anyone, right?”

No answer. Not much for rhetoricals, this one.

Claude resisted the urge to sigh. “How do you get him to stop doing that _thing_ he does, where he gets a compliment or an achievement recognized, and he manages to find at least two or three _other people_ who he claims deserve it more? If I’m being honest, it’s… kind of infuriating.”

Felix had been turning the page on his book, but paused mid-action. _Bingo._ The book was tossed aside, and though Felix wouldn’t look at him, Claude could bet he had his full attention now. “...I don’t know what to tell you. He doesn’t like compliments.” Though there was a finality to his tone, Claude bided his time, and was rewarded. “He accepts them from me because he knows they’re true. He can’t deny facts, and he knows I don’t pull punches when he screws up, either.”

Claude drew a number of things from Felix’s answer, none of which he was sure would help in his personal crusade to get Sylvain to just say ‘thanks’ instead of ‘thanks, but.’ He was certain, though, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Sylvain was right with how much trust he put in Felix. Felix cared a whole hell of a lot.

Claude offered a small smile, and the barest tone of camaraderie; subtlety was the name of the game here. “That’s gotta get annoying. Can’t just say something nice to the guy without going through a whole checklist of validity.”

A shrug, half-hearted. “You get used to it. There’s a lot of things he doesn’t like.” Felix paused, opened his mouth to continue, and stopped, uncertain. When he did it again, it was with a huff of frustration, his voice getting harsher once more. “If you want advice on how to handle him, you’re not going to like the answer. Sylvain is a minefield, but the safe path is obvious. Stay on it, and you’ll be fine. Start poking around where he doesn’t like, and it gets ugly. _Trust me._”

Claude was under no illusions about what Felix meant; everything he said, he was saying for Sylvain’s own good. If Claude wasn’t careful, if he set off a bomb, he wouldn’t be hurting himself.

The front door opened with Sylvain’s return, and Felix wasted no time just standing up and leaving the conversation. _All the same._ Claude had gotten what he wanted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of a shorter one this time. i had intended more, but when i got to the end, it felt too right to keep going.

It turned out there was a certain comfort to being escorted by armed soldiers, particularly after several recent attempts on one’s life, and Sylvain personally languished in that security. Felix’s mood had evened out, and even if the three of them together made an odd sight, the rest of their trip to Fhirdiad was blissfully uneventful, and terribly quiet. Technically, Felix still couldn’t be in the know on what they were doing in Sreng, and had been reluctant to promise his secrecy on the involvement of Sreng at all. Claude hadn’t liked that answer, but Sylvain had assured him Felix wasn’t talking to anyone, because he just didn’t like talking to people.

As if to prove Sylvain’s point, the group was greeted enthusiastically as soon as they arrived, and Felix disappeared immediately.

“There you guys are!” Hilda’s voice was the first to greet them, a bright, cheerful contrast to their worn-out energy the last few days. “I got your letter _ages_ ago, I thought for sure you died.”

Claude sighed, “I sent that letter so you’d arrive _tomorrow_. We’re not late, you’re early.”

She shrugged, “I got bored. Anyway, thanks to that I got to spend _so_ much time with Mercedes. I think I’m in love, I’m gonna steal her from the Kingdom, okay?”

“Hilda, it’s all Kingdom now.”

“Oh, you _know_ what I mean. I’m taking her back to Goneril, she’s too good for this lame old castle!”

Behind her, Mercedes giggled, and Sylvain felt as if his recent wounds were closing up from that singular sound alone; her voice was a salve he had deeply missed. “I wouldn’t mind that,” she told Hilda, amusement dancing in her eyes, “but my husband might.”

The cheery reunion was interrupted by the arrival of the man they’d come to see, Dimitri rounding the corner with a look of surprise. “Sylvain! _Claude!_ No one told me you were coming!” Sylvain had little time to lament that both Felix and Hilda were so disrespectful (and while Hilda was sworn to _some_ secrecy, Felix certainly wasn’t), before he was scooped into a back-breaking hug that he returned with a laugh, patting Dimitri’s back.

“It’s good to see you too, Dimitri, I’m glad we caught you. Just be careful with Claude, we’re fresh out of a fight.”

“Ah, of course—”

He released Sylvain from his arms and moved to his other guest, while Mercedes made her move on Sylvain in kind.

“Are you doing alright?” From anyone else, the tone of the question, the implication, may have set Sylvain on edge, but from Mercedes he could only be comforted.

He nodded. “Claude got the worst of it, we’ll need to get him some real healing soon, but he says most of the pain is residual now.” A warm hand wrapped around his, and he let himself be lead away from the hubbub of the group without complaint. “How’s Dedue?”

“He’s staying in Duscur until the next meeting with Dimitri.”

Sylvain visibly deflated. “Aww, I wanted to see him. How’re the talks going?”

Mercedes shrugged. “Oh, you know I’m no good at the political side of things. They seem in high enough spirits, though, and Dedue says he’d like to take me with him the next time he goes to Duscur!”

“Mercedes, that’s amazing! I can’t believe we’re that far along already, what a relief.”

Their meandering walk had brought them to the chapel, an old favorite. Sylvain’s thoughts on the church felt on a different continent from his feelings here with Mercedes, warm and comforting, her faith in the Goddess a boon instead of a weapon. “What about you, Sylvain? When Hilda arrived, I wasn’t sure what to think, but.. it sounds like you’re doing something quite dangerous.”

He shook his head. “It’s alright. There’ve been some unexpected bumps in the road, but they’ll be worth it.”

Mercedes stopped, and placed both her hands around one of Sylvain’s, holding it up to kiss him lightly on the knuckles. There was a moment of silence, before she finally said what was on her mind, voice soft. “How am I supposed to protect you, if you won’t tell me what you’re doing?”

“...I’m sorry,” it was hard to say under her gaze, to deny her worries, but… “You’ll just have to trust Claude.”

“I don’t _know_ Claude.” A beat, and then she sighed again. “But I do know.. I haven’t seen you look so light in years. You’ve found a purpose, haven’t you?”

The question struck Sylvain. He counted himself lucky that she was content without an answer.

——

Dimitri’s enthusiasm at the sight of Claude was as refreshing as it was unexpected— the last he’d seen the king, he looked on death’s door, and _good man_ or not, leaving the Alliance to someone so obviously miserable had been tough. Whatever had happened in the interim, Dimitri now had the energy of a man only _twice_ his age, instead of quadruple it, and he was directing all of that energy at his new guest.

“What a pleasant surprise, Claude, I thought we’d never see you again after Derdriu! Where in the world have you been?”

Claude smiled, “I know this is the part where I’m supposed to play coy and talk you in circles, but truth is, I just can’t say.”

Dimitri looked disappointed, but not surprised. “Well then, where have you been with Sylvain? You two make quite an odd pair.”

“Can’t say!”

“Well—” Dimitri huffed; frustration was a cute look on him. “Will you at least tell me why you’re _here?_”

Claude made a show of considering the request, relishing a bit how Dimitri hung on his every move. Was the king of all Fódlan supposed to be this earnestly expressive? “I can tell you one thing: I’ve been studying the relics.” Though not technically a lie, it was only by the loosest connection, he hadn’t actually studied them in years. He was about to spring his request, but he was stopped by the expression on Dimitri’s face, suddenly a deeply furrowed brow.

“_Sylvain_ is.. interested in the relics?” Claude connected the dots quickly enough, from that profound worry on Dimitri’s features to the way Sylvain had warned Claude of even touching the Lance of Ruin to the gruesome rumors from all those years ago, the first person to change into a demonic beast at the hands of a relic…

Maybe it hadn’t been the best lie to go with, after all, but Claude persevered, pushing past the mistake with a vague, “It’s… complicated. How about it, could we see the relics you’ve got here?”

“O-of course, yes,” Dimitri seemed to shake off the negative thoughts, and Claude almost felt bad for lying to him about this. Almost. He expected more questions, more clarification on what he needed the relics for, but instead Dimitri just said, “I’ll arrange for your access immediately, it should only take a few days.”

Claude quirked his head to the side curiously. “I don’t mind the wait, but why a few days? What happens if you’re attacked suddenly?”

Dimitri laughed, a surprising confidence in his words. “The Knights of Faerghus are nothing to scoff at, Claude! Even if it comes to the worst, I have Areadbhar at the ready, and Sylvain is of a similar mindset. Come now, stop worrying about our defenses and let me get you a healer. And a room! You will be staying, won’t you?”

——

It shouldn’t have even registered to Claude that he and Sylvain had been offered rooms on entirely separate floors, it made sense that the margrave-to-be had a permanent place to sleep and a guest from who-knew-where would be put elsewhere. But it was a big castle, and while Claude’s former classmates were generally kind enough when they crossed his path, the feeling of being an outsider on sacred ground was prevalent. Felix’s scrutiny seemed like nothing, now that Claude knew it came entirely from a place of protection; it was the eyes of people he _knew_ didn’t care about Sylvain’s involvement that were as heavy as Claude remembered.

He didn’t let it get to him. He did what snooping he could get away with, entertained Dimitri’s requests for his company (the man was working himself to the bone, but it seemed Claude could be an exception to his no-resting rule), accepted Hilda’s poorly-conducted tours, and waited. Waited, he thought, for word that Dimitri had secured them access to the vault. Waited, as it turned out, for the knock on his bedroom door he’d always known would come.

“Come in.” He didn’t have to ask who it was, knew before it opened that Sylvain had finally come calling. It was something of a relief, that even in the midst of all his childhood friends and adult responsibilities, he hadn’t forgotten what they were here for.

“Hey, I’ve got a surprise for you.” Sylvain was smiling, a small, bright smile— a real one, Claude noted, a pleasant change from the usual charm.

“A surprise?”

“A _surprise_. Come on, you’ll want as much daylight as you can get.”

A mysterious proposal that Claude couldn’t deny a tugging curiosity at, and before he knew it he was following Sylvain through the upper hallways of the castle. He knew they weren’t _sneaking_, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of kids getting where they weren’t supposed to be. “You’re getting awfully good at leading me along, Gautier,” he teased after their third left in a row, and he almost protested when Sylvain lead him around a _fourth_, but it was then they arrived at a grand set of double-doors.

Sylvain grinned over his shoulder at him, and pushed open the doors to reveal a huge room, stacked floor to ceiling with books. “_His Majesty’s royal library_. You know what makes this place special?” he asked as he walked in, and Claude followed, eyes scanning every shelf, as if he could devour the contents from here.

“Enlighten me.”

“No Seteth. _No censorship._”

He reached for some quip, some joke just crass enough to appeal to Sylvain’s sense of humor, but the gesture was so kind, so _personal_, he came up empty. “..thank you, Sylvain. This is a very good surprise. Are you sure I can be trusted with all these Kingdom secrets?”

“Yep.”

_Yep_. No hesitation. Just like that.

——

Sylvain, for his part, _was_ surprised to hear a knock at his door after the sun had gone down and most people were tucked into bed. He was among them, but not so thoroughly as to consider for a second not answering.

“Claude! What are you— that is a _lot_ of books.” Without thinking, he moved to take some of the load out of Claude’s arms, and stepped aside to let him in.

“Had some questions. Thought you could help.”

Sylvain laughed a bit incredulously, but already the books were being spread out across his unmade bed, and he closed the door. “..Sure thing. Where do we start?”

——

If he’d known Claude was going to visit him in the middle of the night, he’d have snuck some late-night snacks for the occasion. As it was, Sylvain’s stomach needled at him a bit, and his eyes ached from staying up far later than his usual healthy bedtime, but it all fell by the wayside as he was presented with puzzle after puzzle in the forms of the books Claude had brought. Written accounts of massive battles from multiple perspectives, diagrams poorly-drawn with the intention of being more artistic than informative, memoirs that were largely emotional but provided bare glimpses at the truth of the fights witnessed.

Whether Sylvain liked it or not, his mind grabbed onto these things with a vice grip, the most delectable morsels of real knowledge picked out with a terrible delight; war was in his blood, in his upbringing, in everything _good_ he’d ever done. Claude was counting on that, he was sure. Something about how good it felt, how easy it was to pick up on things Claude had missed, to extract different information, made Sylvain a little wary. It wasn’t that he thought Claude was holding back— the same as their chess games, he wasn’t certain either of them _could_ hold back without being glaringly obvious to the other. It was just… _fun_. Aimlessly fun. And Sylvain had learned a long time ago that nothing enjoyable came without consequences.

For now, though, he tried not to think about it. They were spread out across the massive bed he’d been provided, on top of the blankets with their dozen books and fair few maps. “Ingrid said that you were a _coward_ for leaving,” Sylvain continued their current conversation casually, leafing through an account of war camp provisions management. “That you didn’t wanna ‘face the hardships of leadership’ so you ran away.”

Claude, stretched almost all the way across a large unfolded map, was reaching to jot down discrepancies in his own notebook at the foot of the bed, but he paused mid-motion to give Sylvain a look somewhere between disbelief and disgust.

“_Yeah_. Dimitri tore her a new one, in his own way. Never seen him get that heated over something that wasn’t an actual matter of life or death.”

Claude shook his head, and finished his notation. “Well you’ve gotta tell me about Felix, with the way he’s been staring me down lately.”

Sylvain laughed a bit too loudly for the hour, but the benefit of nobility was that anyone who heard would be paid not to care. “I hate to disappoint, but he did not give a rat’s ass about you or what you do. Still doesn’t. You could ask the Alliance to secede again and lead them in a war against Sreng, Almyra, _and_ Brigid, and he would not remember your name as long as you weren’t our enemy.”

“Keeps outta other people’s business, huh? Can’t imagine that.” He paused on a certain part of the map, leaning close. “Check this out. Weird, right?”

Sylvain obliged, shifting around to get his face close to the map himself— and to Claude’s face in kind. It was a map of the grounds surrounding Garreg Mach, a common thread through the night, and where Claude was looking was a simple enough path. Sylvain studied it a few seconds longer, and then it hit him just what Claude was talking about. “That path isn’t there anymore.”

“This map is recent.”

Sylvain leaned back on his elbow, gears turning. “...Who made it?”

Claude peeked at the underside to search for the answer, and then dropped it again. “I don’t recognize the name, but it says it was made here. Whatcha thinking?”

“I studied the current maps _at_ Garreg Mach—”

“Make out spots?”

“—of course. And I think I would have noticed that kinda discrepency. Maybe this map was based on an old one in the library, instead of being copied true to life?”

“_Interesting._” There was that tone of Claude’s again, the one he got when he was three thoughts deep in his next big idea. Sylvain felt a smile tug at his lips, and then Claude met his gaze, and smiled back. He felt it too. “I’d say it’s just a lazy mapmaker,” he continued, “but if the church is gonna build a wall, what’s more likely: happenstance or secrets?”

Sylvain laughed. “Well, when you put it that way.”

Claude finished making his notes, and rolled up the map again to move on to the next puzzle, while Sylvain returned to his provisions management— and then, slowly, he stopped again, setting the book aside.

“Claude.. this is fun.”

He stopped what he was doing too, head tilted curiously. “Your tone says otherwise.”

“...I need you to tell me that you’re not planning another war on the church.”

Claude sat up properly, expression turning serious. It was hard to express just how much a comfort that was to Sylvain; he would have known the answer in an instant, if he had been easily brushed off. “I’m not. Just.. indulging myself. Sorry if I got out of hand.”

“Because there’s a difference between ‘yeah, we both think the church is pretty fucked and could use some changes,’ and genuinely threatening the people I care about.”

“I know, Sylvain, I know. I’m not going to rope you into something you’d regret.” Sylvain frowned, and Claude seemed to sense that he needed more. “Look, if I wanted to go to war against the church, you _know_ when I would have.”

Another puzzle. _Smooth._ But the answer was right there, low-hanging fruit that Sylvain picked with some relief. “At Derdriu. It would have been a trap for us instead of the Empire.”

“Were you worried?”

“Until I saw Hilda. You don’t use live bait.” The worst of Sylvain’s fears were allayed, and he could feel some of the tension draining from his muscles, but… “Hey. You wanna play?”

Claude smiled bemusedly. “It’s past three in the morning. I would love to play.”

——

The very first game, Sylvain won, and as soon as checkmate was declared, Claude’s easy smile fell.

“Have you been holding back on me?”

“No, I promise that was dumb luck,” Sylvain lied— he hadn’t been holding back til now, but he _had_ been absolutely certain he would win. He’d known without a doubt the mindset Claude was in, the kind of tactic he would pull, and he’d planned accordingly.

Claude was clearly dissatisfied with the answer, but he honored the terms all the same. “Alright. What do you wanna know?”

For once, Sylvain had played for the prize, instead of the joy of playing. “You hate how the war ended.”

“Not really a _question_, but.. well, we did lose. Call me a sore loser.”

Sylvain nodded, but it was clear he wasn’t letting Claude off that easy.

“...You said it yourself: Duscur is the last change they’ll make on their own. It’s not like Dimitri’s a bad guy, but even if he thinks to reach out, his hands are tied.”

“Emphasis on _if_, I imagine.”

Claude shrugged, but it was in agreement. “I don’t know where his priorities lie. He didn’t even want the Alliance. I appreciate that he didn’t want what the Empire wanted, that he didn’t want to _conquer_ the way the old Faerghus did, but…” He leaned back with a huff of barely-contained frustration. “We are two people, and we have to fix Fódlan’s problems with Sreng and Almyra ourselves. If we don’t, _no one will_. Not for years. Not for _decades_. If I had won, if the _Alliance_ had won, I could have made things right with the support of a nation, instead of us having to sneak around to do the right thing.”

It was a side of Claude Sylvain hadn’t seen yet, a more honest, embittered man. He had to wonder if it was truly their similar ideals, or holding each other through a near death experience, that had made it possible. Either way, he was glad for it.

“Thanks for being honest, Claude.”

“Isn’t that the point of the game?”

“It’s late,” he didn’t answer, didn’t feel like addressing that they were both too capable of double-speak and careful fact-skirting to guarantee any fully open answers. “One more?”

——

“_How_ did I not see that?” Claude’s exasperation was enough to get another laugh from Sylvain; he hadn’t been kidding about being a sore loser, apparently it had only taken two losses in a row to show it. With a huff, he laid on his back at the foot of the bed, and waved. “Got another tough one for me, Gautier?”

“Would you make fun of me, if I said I kinda miss our bed back in Sreng?”

“Oh, _absolutely_,” Claude answered, mood instantly lifted.

“Aww.”

“But I kinda do too.”

A grin spread across Sylvain’s face, and the invitation was silent, but mutual. “Come on, help me get this comically large stack of books off my bed. We have work to do tomorrow.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter: @howliish with two i's

“So what’d you tell Dimitri?”

It had occurred to Sylvain (and with plenty of time to spare), that he should have sent Claude back to his own room before sunrise, to avoid the spread of any rumors. He had considered waking Claude to consult him on the matter, even, to see if he cared if everyone thought he was sleeping with Sylvain (in a less innocent context, anyway). But after their many nights spent on watch for the other to sleep, it was too good to actually be able to rest _together_; he didn’t have it in him to end it early. Selfish, certainly, but Claude had made no mention of it, had looked so pleasantly refreshed when he awoke on his own that Sylvain couldn’t even feel bad.

When they woke up naturally, it was well past breakfastime. They were getting dressed now, Sylvain tugging on his boots as they discussed strategy for the day to come.

“I said we were researching the relics,” Claude answered him, and Sylvain grimaced. “Yeah, he made the same face. He didn’t push back on it, though, so it’s what we have to go with.”

Sylvain thought on it carefully for a minute, before offering a solution. “If he asks again, either of us — and _only_ Dimitri, I don’t think anyone else would appreciate it — we can tell him I’m looking for a way to destroy the Lance of Ruin. I don’t think he’ll like it, but coming from me… he doesn’t have it in him to stop me.”

He had hoped Claude would let it slide, but he could practically see the curiosity overwhelming the courtesy before Claude spoke again. “You… _really_ hate the relics, huh?”

“I don’t wanna get into it.”

There was a long moment while Sylvain finished getting dressed, hesitation hung in the air— he could _feel_ how badly Claude wanted to keep pushing. But finally, he spoke up again, changing the subject to the plan of attack today.

They would spend some time in the vault with the relics, carefully handling most of them a little before finally landing on Failnaught itself. Claude had a notebook that he’d pre-faked notes inside, and none of the people who guarded the vault or had relics inside of it were researchers themselves. If anyone thought to check Claude’s notes, it would be very convincing gibberish, gibberish that ultimately pointed to needing to take one back for more comparison against the Lance of Ruin. Since Failnaught was technically Claude’s and the only one safe for him to handle, it just made sense.

Sylvain leafed through the ‘research notes’ on their walk and admitted it was good work, but stopped them just outside of the dining hall while they were still alone, pointing at one of the middle pages, voice low. “You normally write in the margins on things you find too interesting to keep coherent. Like if it excites you, there’s the main chunk of text, and then on the side you have little notes that couldn’t fit in, you know? Your notes last night were way messier, and if we’re spending all this time on the relics…”

Claude nodded slowly, giving it more contemplation than Sylvain thought the comment itself warranted— maybe he was showing his cards a bit too openly. “Right, right,” Claude said absentmindedly, taking back the notebook. “I didn’t think you’d wanna be this careful in the heart of your own kingdom, but I’m not against it. I’ll add some extras while we eat.”

——

Dimitri was present for the opening of the vault that held the relics, but thankfully his other business didn’t grant him the time to join their research. He was always harder to lie to, for Sylvain, his earnestness could cut through every self-hating impulse, every urge to cover up, every painfully-curated mask. Dimitri need only ask, and Sylvain would spill it all.

But in the end, it didn’t matter. It was not an especially large vault, big enough to walk around in with careful displays for the weapons and shield inside, but small enough that it took only a glance for Sylvain’s heart to sink into his stomach.

Crusher, the Aegis Shield, Ingrid’s lance relic Lúin, all sat in their places, undisturbed, next to empty holders for Areadbhar, the Lance of Ruin, and Failnaught.

They entered anyway, and without exchanging even a glance, set about their work the same as planned. They played their parts. Their long stretches of silence that looked like intense research were instead refiguring every plan they’d made, independently trying to suss out the next problem: Could they be certain that it was with the church? Could they find out without revealing their intent? Would they, as Sylvain immediately suspected, have to steal it outright?

When they met back with Dimitri for dinner that night, it was clear to Sylvain that they were both struggling to keep their masks in place against this massive roadblock. Dimitri seemed none the wiser, greeting them exuberantly, and asking, “Well, how did it go? Did you get what you were looking for?”

Considering the lie Claude had told, Sylvain saw fit to answer first, to try to allay whatever fears Dimitri was holding. “Not quite, but it’s a start. I don’t wanna get into the nitty gritty, but fact is, I’m not willing to subject _anyone_ to the risk of handling a relic that doesn’t answer to their crest.” He gave a pointed look at Claude, who caught on to the ruse quickly.

“I just wanted to try it, see what would happen! I don’t think my wyvern would appreciate the _weight_ of that shield anyway.”

Dimitri laughed as he poured them all a drink, having insisted on foregoing serving staff in favor of a more personal meal. “Well, it seems Felix and your wyvern have more than a sharp bite in common. Does that mean you need another relic for your research?”

This one, Claude had clearly prepared an answer for, as he leaned forward and his eyes lit up in that way that they only did when a plan was starting to work. In spite of the situation, Sylvain allowed himself a little smile as Claude spoke. “Sylvain’s relic has given us a lot to work with, but unfortunately, we can’t tell if its attributes are unique to it as a lance, or to it alone, or if all relics have certain things they share... With just one, with just a _lance_, there’s no way to know.”

Settling into his meal, Dimitri hummed in contemplation. “So another lance wouldn’t help, I suppose.. a shame, I was willing to offer Areadbhar…”

“This wine’s delicious, Dimitri, did you break out a vintage just for us?” Sylvain drew him off track just a moment before he could get too far down that line of thinking, and Dimitri lit up in response to the compliment.

“Nothing too luxurious, just a few decades old— it isn’t often I have guests I actually want, and we never thought we would see Claude again. I thought it worth a little pomp and circumstance.”

Sylvain offered his agreement, while Claude gave a sheepish laugh. “Miss me that much, Your Kingliness? I’d think your current endeavors outweigh a titleless stranger at your doorstep.”

“Not at all! You’re an old friend, Claude, and our victory would not have been possible if not for your careful strategies. Sylvain made that much clear before we’d even left Derdriu.”

Sylvain cleared his throat roughly, but the damage was done, Claude already giving him a mischievous look over his wine glass. “Did he now?” Claude practically _purred_, “What a coincidence. I don’t know that I’d be visiting at all if anyone but Sylvain had asked.”

“He’s one of our finest! I’m so glad you agree,” Dimitri himself was quite pleased to for once be _in on the joke_, if the joke was that Sylvain was absolutely terrible with genuine compliments, and his grin was poorly-hidden.

“Alright,” Sylvain interrupted, “very charming, but can we get back on track? We have to find an alternative to researching another lance, right?”

Though still in good spirits, Dimitri obliged the change in subject. “Mm, Crusher may be an option, but Annette is so wrapped up in her school of sorcery it may be some time before she’s able to return…” There was a pause as they both unquestionably waited for Dimitri to make the next step on his own, to not need any nudge, and Sylvain counted it a victory that neither of them breathed a sigh of relief when he perked up again. “Ah, that’s right! Failnaught wasn’t in our vault, was it?”

“No, actually,” Claude answered, “I’ll admit some curiosity, but since I gave it up in the first place…”

“Nonsense, if I’d any idea you would return I wouldn’t have let Lady Rhea take it back to the monastery. As it was, I had no reason to refuse her again.” He shook his head with a sigh. “My apologies. If Failnaught is what you need, I can..?”

A smile came across Sylvain’s face unbidden— Dimitri’s good-hearted nature was infallible. “Nah, it’s alright, we’ve probably got a backup plan or two before we need to resort to disturbing the Archbishop. We were headed the opposite direction anyway.” Claude didn’t like that move, the way the grip on his glass just barely tensed said as much, and he could refute it in a second if he wanted to. If he didn’t trust Sylvain’s judgement.

Nothing. They’d talk about it later, then.

With the information they needed obtained, the conversation between the three turned friendlier, letting Dimitri talk at length as they helped themselves to the old bottle of wine; it was clear without spelling it out that he was suffering some with both Sylvain and Byleth, the ones who treated him most comfortably, off in their own corners of the Kingdom. If talking to Byleth in the next leg of their journey hadn’t been out of the question, Sylvain would have passed the thought along… As it was, he could only feel a pang of guilt, and provide as much friendship as he could in the interim.

By the time the dinner was done, all three of them had imbibed enough to be a bit tipsy, and Dimitri offered the other two escorts back to their rooms ‘in case the stairs proved too much.’ Claude politely declined, and Sylvain followed suit, happy to play the escort in turn. Or at least, that was the idea.

It was stupid of Sylvain, to let his guard down. To let alcohol wriggle its way into his thoughts, curl around his desire, choke out his inhibitions. He was always so careful. It was that venomous snake that leaned him against the wall outside his own room, filled his mind with images of his hands running across a bare chest, of pulling hips close (_closer_), that venom that quirked his head to the side and made him give Claude the _come hither_ look he had given a thousand strangers a thousand times. “Thanks for going with me on everything. That could have gotten messy if you didn’t trust me.” _Trust me_. It fell from Sylvain’s lips as a promise and a wish in equal measure, heavy as any proposition.

And it fell to the floor, just as heavy. “I didn’t have much choice,” Claude sighed, and Sylvain realized rather abruptly that Claude was not half so intoxicated as himself. “You obviously know Dimitri better than I do. I hope you have something in mind.”

“I do,” he tried to straighten his posture as subtly as possible, to quietly remove his blatant desire from the equation without making it too obvious. “Probably not something we should discuss out in the open, though.” A half-beat of silence before he added, “...or after drinking wine older than me, for that matter. Tomorrow.”

A part of him still waited for Claude to invite himself in, that snake wound its way around Sylvain’s arm and urged him to reach out— but both fell short, and instead Claude nodded, “Tomorrow,” and walked down the hall.

Sylvain slid into his room, and knocked his head on the closed door in frustration. “_Idiot_,” he whispered to himself, and hit his head against the door one more time for good measure. “He’s not here to _fuck_ you.” _And you’re not here to ruin another good thing._

——

When Claude returned to Sylvain’s room, it was with an early breakfast and a plan. Not for retrieving Failnaught, he really had needed to place his trust in Sylvain on that one, but for Sylvain himself. Claude knocked briefly, waited a moment, and let himself in— there wasn’t much left in the way of privacy between them after how long they’d shared a room, and true to form he entered to the sound of Sylvain talking into his pillow.

“Shouldn’t you be meditating? You missed yesterday, go do double.” The mess of red hair perked up, though, at the sound of plates being put down on the little table, and Sylvain started to stretch himself out in acceptance.

“I don’t think you know how meditation works.”

“Do too, you sit and think until you’re bored. The better you are, the longer you go.” He crossed the room to slump into a chair across from Claude, and nibbled on a thick piece of bacon. “I thought you were supposed to be a pro.”

Claude rolled his eyes, but decided against explaining the ins and outs of meditation to Sylvain _again_. It could be hard to tell whether he was missing a point on purpose or just trying to get a rise out of somebody, and Claude wasn’t one to fall for bait that obvious. “If you’re not too hungover—”

“I’m fine, what kind of amateur do you take me for?”

“Good, then you can tell me what brilliant plan you’ve concocted that beats out _‘let the king hand it over for free.’_” Sylvain took a moment to rub his stubbled cheeks with a tired groan, but Claude had anticipated the _morning grump_ Sylvain had a knack for, and he nudged Sylvain’s plate a little closer as offering, adding, “I know, but we’ve got a lot to get done today. Whatever we’re doing, I wanna leave by sundown.”

“Of course.” It was soft, mildly annoyed, but the annoyance didn’t seem to be aimed Claude’s way. “Okay. Let’s say Dimitri asks, and Rhea says no, so Byleth says no.”

Claude frowned, and cut him off early. “That’s a big assumption. Did Teach get less _decent_ since we last crossed paths?”

The pause at that was.. an odd one. So far as Claude could tell, everybody liked Byleth, but Sylvain’s face said his feelings were at least _mixed_. “It’s not about that.” Deflection. “He doesn’t know what we need it for. Neither does Dimitri. We could tell them, but then everything gets a lot messier a lot faster, and we run the risk of _Rhea_ finding out and putting the relics on full lockdown.”

There it was again. More caution than Claude expected in a castle Sylvain had surely grown up around, with people he called friends— more caution than he even exhibited in Sreng. A knot of a problem that Claude started to pick at in his head while he pushed on the matter at hand. “Let’s pretend I agree with you for now. What next?”

“I think we have to jump ahead three steps.”

In Sreng, the biggest threat was undoubtedly their own deaths, with now two separate attempts on their lives and huge targets on their backs. Sylvain had said on their frigid daytrip that he thought he should be dead already, but refused to say why. Illness was too easy, too impersonal. Claude had probably seen this man’s heart stop at least once before while tending to him, admitting he was sick growing up couldn’t bring that much secrecy.

“If we assume Rhea won’t let us have Failnaught, one way or another…”

There was some _guilt_ to Sylvain being alive. Death did not concern him, but nor did it seem some massive relief— maybe he felt it deserved? So if he died in Sreng, he was just getting what was coming? That explained one half, but then why the paranoia so deep in friendly—

Claude’s thoughts came to a halt as he realized Sylvain had stopped talking. “Sorry?”

“I know, it sounds stupid,” apparently Sylvain hadn’t noticed the momentary lapse in attention, “but we _have_ to. Stealing it straight from the vault is the only way.” Ah.

“..Yeah, it does sound stupid.” This was too important to let himself get lost in knot-picking just yet— the rest would come. He could also just put it aside as a post-chess question for later, but Sylvain had shown a startling lack of self-awareness in some of his other obvious coping mechanisms thus far. “I’ll accept it as a starting point, with an addendum: We talk to Teach.”

“Hate that.”

“We don’t have to tell him _why_ we need it, just that we do. He can help. He _will_ help.”

Sylvain clearly wanted to argue more, but settled instead for digging into the last bits of his meal.

——

When Claude offered chess as a way to loosen their minds up for the rest of their strategy meeting, it was with what Felix may have considered _ill intent_. It was, perhaps, exactly what Felix had been worried about. But he couldn’t help himself, Sylvain had claimed Claude had more valuable secrets to lose but he had neglected to mention that he was an absolute _labyrinth_ himself.

In fact, Claude could hardly choose the question he would ask first. _What’s your problem with Byleth? What should have killed you so young? What would have happened if I’d taken your offer last night?_ Self-indulgent questions all, but the biggest, ugliest question was already on the tip of his tongue when he declared, “Checkmate.”

“And thus, my _undefeated_ two-win streak ends. Maybe I’ll get two and a half next time.” Sylvain’s bad attitude had slowly been replaced by his usual cheer as the morning wore on, and he leaned back in his chair comfortably. “Hit me.”

“Alright, Sylvain,” Claude leaned forward, watching carefully for a reaction. “Why do you hate the relics?”

The word _relics_ was barely out of his mouth when Sylvain said, “No,” quick and harsh, his easy body language shifting back to defensive in an instant.

“...No? I didn’t know we could just say no. Doesn’t that kinda defeat the purpose?”

“_Claude._” Sylvain was tense, his tone nothing short of _dangerous_, and for a moment, Claude was properly intimidated. “Drop it.”

Slowly, choosing his words carefully with narrowed eyes, Claude said, “Okay. You pick your secret then.”

Too little too late, Sylvain was already standing up and heading for the door, and Claude had no mind to stop him. _“I’ll owe you one.”_

Well. Bomb found. Time to find out the hard way how long that was going to last.

——

At least the first part of their plan had already been decided, and after Claude returned their empty dishes to the kitchen he made to enact it.

Hilda was spending her time with Mercedes again today, and Claude hung back as he waited for a lull in their conversation about how they applied makeup (and took note of a useful tip Mercedes had just passed along, besides). A minute later, they acknowledged his presence, and he stepped forward with a hand outstretched. “Could I steal away the lovely lady Goneril? Best friend business.”

“Oh, of course!” Mercedes agreed amicably, but a look of worry crossed her face then. “Is Sylvain alright? He passed by earlier and he looked upset.”

He paused, weighed his options— he was in uncharted territory, wasn’t sure who if anyone would be right to help, but at least Mercedes seemed a safe guess. Worth a shot. “You know, I’m not really sure, we, uh..” Claude glanced around a moment, made sure it was just the three of them, but lowered his voice anyway, “kinda had a disagreement. Any chance you could talk to him? Not _for_ me, just..”

Mercedes smiled warmly, and stood to put her hand on Claude’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

That taken care of, Claude took Mercedes’ place across from Hilda, and started in on his request.

——

Sylvain hadn’t meant to go to the chapel. He’d never been the ‘running from his problems’ type, too skilled at burying them to bother. And there were a dozen buried parts of himself he wasn’t ready to show to Claude, too ugly or unpleasant or.. _helplessly small_. The web of complex agonies that wrapped up the Lance of Ruin was all of those at once, and no one piece of it could explain the whole of it, no one thread could be pulled without disturbing the whole web.

What was he supposed to say? What game was he meant to play, to satisfy Claude’s ocean-deep curiosity without spending weeks picking apart his own psyche and laying each fragment of it bare? Easier to deal with the consequences of a breach of contract, loathe as he was to do it first.

He hadn’t set out with a destination in mind, only wanted out, only wanted to do everything possible to not have to see Claude disappointed in him for his secrecy, for being too _weak_ to open up. But he wasn’t especially surprised to look up and find himself surrounded by the regalia of the church anyway.

It was ridiculous, to find comfort here. He couldn’t call himself a believer with any certainty, couldn’t pray without the feeling of _just kidding_, had never known the Goddess as a figure of protection. The idea that he was being _protected_ by anything holy left a bitter taste in his mouth. But times like these, when the church was empty, and it was just him and his miserable thoughts…

What was it? Was it that he felt truly alone? If the Goddess wasn’t here, She couldn’t pass judgement on him. And if she was, she clearly didn’t care to.

The sound of soft footsteps behind him was familiar, and he didn’t react when a hand touched his arm.

“It never gets less beautiful, does it?”

“Hey, Mercedes. Do you have a sixth sense for when I’m actually praying for once?”

Her hand squeezed just a little, her tone light. “Oh, Sylvain. I know you don’t pray.”

He smiled at that; she always knew just what to say to ease his burden, whatever that burden may be. Mercedes could certainly tell something was wrong, but he wasn’t sure he could explain it to even her— it was too deep a cut, too sharp a web to put on anyone.

“He wanted me to check on you.”

That was enough to draw Sylvain’s attention as he looked down at Mercedes, opening his mouth to say something but finding himself at a bit of a loss. He settled lamely on, “Oh.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.”

“...”

“I’m okay, I am. You know I’ve got kind of a.. short fuse on some things,” he grumbled, and she frowned a bit up at him, waiting for further explanation. “It’s, uh.. demonic beast stuff, you know?”

She whispered a soft _oh_, and moved closer, hand pressed to his breast as if to steady him. She watched him a moment, weighing the silence, before raising her other palm to hold his cheek in affection. “Sylvain… please take care of yourself first. Whatever’s going on, don’t let it cost you what happiness you have.”

His eyes were wet in an instant, and his arms wrapped around her without thinking, face buried in her hair for a long moment. “...I love you, Mercedes.”

“I love you, too.”

“It’s.. I promise it’s nothing self-sacrificing. You were right the first time: I’ve got a purpose.” He still spoke into her hair, worried that if he let go and looked her in the eye again he really would cry from the lovely weight of her kindness. “When Dedue gets back, you tell him I have a dinner with his name on it.” She was held fully against his chest now, and he could feel her nodding in agreement. Still, she did not relax; a part of her was uncertain. Loosing his hold, Sylvain shifted to touch their foreheads together instead, eyes closed. “Listen… you never heard me say this. No matter who asks, okay? ...I’m taking Felix with me.”

_That did it_, tension finally draining from her frame, and they mirrored each other’s reassuring smiles.

——

Refreshed by his time in the chapel, Sylvain decided that while he wasn’t keen on apologizing for or even addressing his annoyance at Claude’s digging, he at least didn’t want to show back up empty-handed. That meant enacting the first step of their plan.

He poked his head into the training room, found some knights at work, and checked a few other frequent haunts before finally catching sight of his quarry, sitting outdoors with one ankle perched on the other knee, holding up a blade he was in the middle of polishing.

“Hey, Felix!”

“Mm.”

“So hear me out.”

“Mm.”

“I’m doing something dangerous, and it could get everyone involved exiled from the Kingdom forever.”

“I’m in.”

——

It was an odd feeling, to finally be telling someone the whole truth of what they were doing. Sylvain and Claude had been juggling a dozen secrets that each had different people who couldn’t know them for several weeks now, with only each other to rely on. And now, they were expanding that group from two to four. Hilda and Felix both had a tendency to play at being less interested or intelligent than they actually were, but they weren’t given much choice this time.

Claude and Sylvain summarized the situation thus far, taking their turns in areas they knew better, and blatantly skipping over the method of Saran’s first murder attempt, just how close their trip through the desert had gotten… and their high-stakes chess matches. It was still quite the story to get through, and by the end Hilda looked bored and Felix annoyed.

“Okay, so—” Hilda started, but Felix was immediately speaking over her.

“You’re dissolving Gautier?”

Sylvain stared openly, slackjawed, and he could see Claude’s eyebrows raised in surprise as well. Leave it to Felix to hit on the heart of a thing well before the ribs could be pulled back. Sylvain stumbled over his words a bit before finally landing on, “I’m not quite that far along in the process, there’s a lot of steps to get through before we can consider—”

“The land has to come from somewhere, doesn’t it?”

“_Felix_. We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

Felix shrugged. “I don’t care one way or the other,” he said, and Sylvain knew immediately he was granting his approval for the idea; appreciated, but definitely not the time for it. “I just don’t like you burying the obvious.”

“Can we keep Felix? This is _fun_,” Claude laughed, then gestured to Hilda. “What was your question?”

“_Thank you._” She stared daggers at Felix for the interruption, but if he felt them he didn’t care. “So if they wanna know you are who you say you are, why can’t they just check your crest? You’re the only one with the Riegan crest alive, right?”

“Would you believe not everyone cares about crests? They don’t even have any way to _see_ my crest.”

She huffed. “Then what’s the point of all this relic-stealing nonsense? That’s a lot of effort to go through for people who don’t even care!”

Sylvain cut in then, “Sreng doesn’t care about Fódlan politics, but they do know that certain relics only work for certain people. You can thank my brother for _that_ exchange of information, but what it means now is that while they don’t much care for fighting—”

“That Saran seems like a real peace-lover,” Felix scoffed.

“And she had every right to be upset!” Sylvain didn’t want to be derailed, but defending Sreng was worth it. “Just because we can’t _let_ her fight back doesn’t mean she’s wrong to. They’re peaceful _otherwise_, Faerghus is just asking for it, and we represent Faerghus. ..Anyway, they’ve heard about the Alliance leader and Failnaught, same as they’ve heard about me and the Lance of Ruin.”

There was a short stretch of silence before it became clear no one had any arguments left, and finally Hilda shrugged. “Alright, but after this I can just chill, right?”

Claude grinned at the acceptance. “You got it.”

——

They made an odd quartet, but under the cover of Claude and Sylvain needing to leave tonight, their respective best friends tagging along for the day was enough for them to move in a pack comfortably— Sylvain far more comfortably now that public eye meant no more _digging_. And it was Sylvain’s attachment to his war wyvern that gave them cover to seek their means of travel without raising an eyebrow.

...Sylvain’s _apparent_ attachment, but it was Felix who stubbornly insisted on carrying the packages of meat that would be fed to her, and as they arrived in the castle’s wyvern barn, it was Felix who she barrelled out of her stable to greet, nuzzling him so hard he almost fell over.

Sylvain grinned at the scene as Felix fished out a hunk of raw meat from the pack and tossed it in the air, the wyvern snapping at it quickly and gulping it down. Next to him, Hilda piped up “Ohh, she’s so cute! Let me feed her!” Without waiting for Felix’s permission, she reached over to pull out a hunk of her own, and the display was repeated, the wyvern letting out an affectionate growl. After she was done, she leaned down to put her head next to Hilda, who pat her face while Felix pretended not to be upset about missing part of the treat-giving experience. “What’s her name?” Hilda asked, though it was clear she wasn’t sure who she was actually asking.

“Cosette,” Sylvain answered, “I named her after my first girlfriend. My thinking at the time was that I was definitely going to be getting my ass beat by this girl, but she ended up _much_ sweeter than her namesake.”

“That’s morbid, coming from you,” Claude laughed, but his eyes were already scanning the other wyverns in the barn. “How long have you had her?”

“She stuck with me through the whole war. We’ve always had a pretty professional relationship, but she and Felix hit it off while she played guard-wyvern back in Gautier.”

Felix’s voice was equal parts proud and amused as he added, “She made a healthy snack of more than one Empire assassin. No one expects a beast like her out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Aww,” Hilda cooed, giving an especially vigorous nose-rub, “Cosette’s such a good girl!”

“Unfortunately, you’ll have to fall in love with another wyvern. Felix is no good in the sky, he needs Cosette’s loving embrace more than you do,” Sylvain tossed Felix a wink as he said it, and got an eyeroll in return, but no actual protest.

Hilda and Claude spent the next hour meeting the different wyverns in the barn that didn’t have other tasks assigned, before finally landing on an older wyvern with deep rusty scales named Brenner. He didn’t have nearly as much energy as the spry Cosette, but he was sturdy and used to riders like Hilda, less experienced but plenty comfortable. Brenner gave them each a measured, bored stare during the meet-and-greet to follow, and they determined him the perfect vehicle for a heist.

——

First, Hilda arrived at the monastery on Brenner’s back, with all the pomp and circumstance she enjoyed. She came bearing a deep bag full of small hand-wrapped gifts for people she had liked during her time at the school. She ended her cheery loop in the chamber of the new Archbishop, pressed a little box into his hand, and whispered something in his ear that made him smile.

——

“Hey, Teach,” Claude’s quiet greeting came with a short two-fingered wave, as if he hadn’t disappeared from a battlefield to supposedly never return. “Or is it ‘Your Holiness’ now?”

To his credit, Byleth’s smile was warm— even Claude had a hard time seeing it as anything but genuinely happy. That was just one wonder of Byleth: for all the mysteries he was wrapped in, he was the most trustworthy and apparently honest person Claude could think of. He made even the cramped underground meeting place Claude had insisted on feel almost homey. Again, Claude’s thoughts went to Sylvain’s aversion to this plan to begin with.

But he couldn’t linger on it, as Byleth’s smile faded a bit. “I.. don’t imagine this is a social call. Are you alright, Claude?”

He furrowed his brows at that plain read. Not like it was hard to tell, secret messages and all, but that didn’t stop the sudden pang of guilt. “I’m fine, nothing to worry about. But.. you’re right, of course. Sorry to not stop by until I needed something from you.”

Byleth shook his head to dismiss the apology, but maintained his usual stoic silence.

“See, it’s more of a big picture problem than anything to do with me. I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but the long and short of it is, I need..” He sighed heavily. “I need to break into the vault where the spare relics are being kept. I can’t say why, but no one can know what I’m doing.”

Byleth lapsed into thought, processing in that long, careful way of his. It lasted longer than a silence would be strictly comfortable in normal conversation, but if it bothered him, he didn’t show it. When he finally met Claude’s gaze again, it was with a worried look of his own. “If there’s.. some rule you need to break… let me fix it. If there’s something wrong, let me change it.”

_Ah_, there was the good-hearted professor Claude had watched from such a distance in his youth. It seemed the church was in good hands, but he wasn’t going to ignore Sylvain’s warnings of Rhea either. “Thank you, that.. means more than you could know. And I may just take you up on that, sooner or later. But it isn’t so simple as one bad rule— keeping this secret for me will do a lot more good in the long run.”

For a moment, it looked like Byleth wanted to protest, but he nodded instead. “I understand. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Funny you should ask. You still have that old sword of yours lying around?”

——

News of a cloaked swordsman working his way in from the outskirts of the town traveled swiftly. He had dispatched two dozen soldiers and three well-armed knights single-handedly, and still his crusade continued. No deaths yet, but to be so devilishly skilled, to mount so sudden an attack, there was no doubt his target.

Word reached the Archbishop, and his eyes lit up in a way his retainers hadn’t seen in months— there was no stopping him when he hadn’t seen battle in so long, when he kept the Sword of the Creator at his side every day all the same. They all knew he was a mercenary first, and it was the most Seteth could do to send a contingent of knights for ‘protection’ after him as Byleth rushed out the door towards the promise of danger.

When he met the encroaching swordsman, it was in a wide open courtyard. There was a moment of tense silence as the knights and soldiers in pursuit of them both waited for one of them to make a move. Byleth undid a clasp on his elaborate robe, and tossed a great mass of cloth to the ground, leaving him in plain clothes unsuited for the chill coming to the air, and the moment the pale red glow of his sword was revealed the cloaked swordsman dashed towards him.

Steel struck relic bone in a loud clash, and then again, and again. The more skilled onlookers could tell the power in each blow, how deadly this fight could be with a single slip-up… and how instantly Byleth was enjoying himself. That same giddy thrill for the fight was in the stranger’s motions too, but it didn’t lessen the danger any, and though many of those watching the fight wanted to intervene, it was several minutes before any got the nerve to.

Fights were meant to be quick, messy affairs, but this one had drawn out far longer than normal, and both combatants were beginning to show signs of wear. Still nothing more than nicks in the way of actual wounds, but someone in the crowd saw fit to finally interrupt. A knight broke from the growing crowd, sprinting towards the unknown assailant’s blind spot— only to be thrown back as the Archbishop himself raised a wall of fire in his path.

“_He’s too dangerous,_” Byleth shouted, and several more of those meant to protect him tensed. If any of them noticed the tiniest pause as the swordsman waited for Byleth to be ready to start again, they didn’t show it.

——

Sylvain and Claude didn’t wait for the fight to start. As soon as they heard the knights start to mobilize, the familiar shouting of young soldiers eager to prove themselves after just missing out on the _real_ war, they made their move. Felix’s rampage had purposefully started far enough from their destination to pull the bulk of the security away, but not so opposite as to draw immediate suspicion; it meant anyone who suspected a distraction was less likely to predict their real target, but also that they had to be more careful on the approach.

Their secret passage was the main roadblock, and Sylvain made a face as they approached and Hilda’s voice was closer than ideal— she had been meant to distract the guards nearby, but seemed to be having some trouble getting them to actually _follow_ her anywhere. Claude half-shrugged — nothing for it — and they set about searching every inch of the sturdy brick wall for weaknesses.

Their work was silent, but hurried, as they knew exactly where they were searching and nothing about what they were searching for. A catch, a mislaid brick, anything from the well-hidden to the outright cliché of a mystery novel. Simultaneously, Hilda’s voice pitched suddenly upward as her flirtations took on an air of desperation, and Claude’s fingers slid into a hidden alcove on a bottom brick of the wall. Sliding open a slab of stone and brick was neither a quick nor _quiet_ process, and just around the corner Hilda was nearly shouting trying to cover for them as they pushed it open just enough to wriggle inside, and put all their weight into closing it once more.

A large shadow passed over the last sliver of light before it disappeared, and as the two were plunged into darkness, they both held their breath, listening for the sound of shifting stone, waiting to see if they were caught so quickly. Thirty seconds passed, and then a minute, and the outside world may as well have not existed for how thoroughly the sound was blocked out. “...If they did spot us, I think it’s safe to say they don’t know how to get in,” Sylvain broke the silence with a whisper.

He could feel movement beside him, and then, “No time to waste, then.”

It was easy enough for Claude to say; every other underground portion of the monastery had at least poor lighting, and they were sat in the kind of darkness Sylvain hadn’t seen in years. “Hey, Claude, any chance you brought a light?”

“You can face a winter night in a desert but you’re scared of the dark?”

Probably for the best Claude couldn’t see the little scowl that came unbidden at that, and instead he said, “Nah, just don’t like the damp. Not exactly _fast_ to stumble around like this anyway.”

“Sylvain, turn around.” Reluctantly, he did as he was told, turning away from the wall they’d entered through to see more of the long black void of a hallway… with a square of dim light at the end. “Just be careful and use the wall for guidance. Light on your feet, this’d be a hell of a place to break your neck.” Even as he spoke, Claude’s whispers echoed from further away, and Sylvain had no choice but to follow suit, wondering if it would be inappropriate to thank the goddess that he had worn gloves, and couldn’t feel the slick stone beneath his fingers.

——

They couldn’t speak much, of course. No way to know who could be waiting around what corner, no idea if this section of tunnel found some secretive use that didn’t require torchlight. But sound was their only way to know each other’s position, the soft shuffling of careful footfalls, and Sylvain latched onto it as his only lifeline.

He was not alone.

His arm wasn’t broken.

He wasn’t climbing old crumbling stone. If he slipped and fell, it would only be to the floor, he would not have to start over at the bottom, more injured than before, watching helplessly as the patch of light he aimed for grew steadily darker.

In front of him, a pebble was kicked, skittered across the floor. He was not alone. He was not trapped. He was here by choice. He was not going to die.

He was not alone.

——

When they reached the exit to the interminable hallway, it could just as easily have been three minutes or three hours since they’d started walking. If someone told Sylvain it had been three days he could have believed it, but the look on Claude’s face as the flickering torchlight finally touched it didn’t say _we’ve been walking for three days_. In fact, as he turned back to Sylvain, a touch of worry crossed it instead.

The coast was apparently clear enough for him to voice his concerns in a hushed whisper, “You’re really pale. You okay?” Sylvain didn’t miss how he avoided bringing fear into the equation again, but he knew that was what Claude was really asking: _Are_ you afraid of the dark?

Sylvain let out an easy breath of laughter at the absurdity of the question; Claude could read a lot of his tells, but this laugh was honed against decades of telling Felix there was nothing to worry about. “Oh, _Your Highness_, I’m terrified. Won’t you save me from the scary hallway?”

There was no way to explain that it wasn’t fear. Just an old hollow certainty that whatever he got, he had it coming.

——

Their progress was faster with light to go by, but it took two circles to get their bearings again— Sylvain had been largely responsible for the navigation, and figuring out just how long that tunnel had lasted made the difference between success and popping out in the middle of a classroom. Once they’d found their place on their mental maps, they were able to move much quicker while keeping their stealth, and it was several twists and turns before they encountered another roadblock.

Claude suddenly stopped, and held up his hand for Sylvain to stop too. As he did, the sound of footsteps didn’t, and they both tensed in preparation. It wasn’t coming from behind them, but in front, and whoever was making them _wasn’t_ trying to conceal their presence.

_A guard?_ Sylvain mouthed, and after another moment listening, Claude nodded. _Just one?_ And he nodded again. The path of the guard was slowly approaching them, but Sylvain had an idea. He mouthed _Trust me_, and pointed Claude towards an alcove further back.

Claude did not look eager to trust him on this one, but did as suggested anyway, hiding where the guard wouldn’t be able to spot him unless right on top of him, while Sylvain found his own hidden spot closer to the entrance to the hall. He pulled out his axe in preparation, and saw Claude’s eyes widen in concern, but it was too late to stop him without being spotted.

When the unsuspecting guard crossed in front of Sylvain’s hiding spot, he was shorter than expected, but that just made it easier for Sylvain to lift his axe with both hands over the guard’s head, and pull the handle tight against his neck. There was a struggle, scuffling of feet against the floor as the man tried to fight against his sudden assailant, but Sylvain held firm. Fifteen seconds, the struggling weakened, and then stopped altogether, and Sylvain gently released his hold and guided the limp form down to the floor.

Emerging to see the damage done, Claude found an unconscious guard instead of a dead one, but sighed anyway. “So you’re just totally ignoring the plan?”

“..Yeah?” They went silent for a moment, listening for more guards nearby, but when they heard nothing they continued their path. “Come on, don’t act surprised, you’ve played against me.”

“I thought _maybe_,” came Claude’s hushed complaints, “if you weren’t trying to _outsmart_ me, you’d cut the sneak attacks!”

In spite of himself, Sylvain stifled a laugh. “You’re worse than Felix. I know, the plan was _no evidence_, but I gotta go with my gut.”

“Well if your _gut_ gets us caught—”

“My heart is yours for the stabbing.”

——

“...Hey, Claude?”

“No, Sylvain, I don’t remember this path having a third branch on the map, either.”

“Alright. At least it’s not just me. What should we do?”

“What does your _gut_ say?”

Sylvain tapped his foot in serious contemplation before shrugging. “Secret paths don’t usually lead to _unimportant_ places.”

“Good, my curiosity was gonna kill me.”

He smiled. “Oh, I know.”

——

The third branch was narrower than the other two, clearly less intended for daily use, and it only got more cramped as they moved down it, until they’d had to move single-file. Sylvain had offered to go first for two reasons: First, he was overall bigger, and if it got too narrow for Sylvain, there was no reason to keep pushing forward. Second, if one of them was going to be seen, he’d be just slightly less suspicious than the guy who hadn’t been in Fódlan for some time, and considerably less likely to be put on trial for church execution. Sylvain was going through a few different lie options for the latter option as they moved forward, distracted by how he was starting to have to turn at an angle to avoid his shoulders brushing the walls, when his breath caught, and he stopped abruptly.

Claude bumped against him lightly, but knew better than to ask what the problem was— in fact, even as Sylvain watched ahead of him, he felt Claude backing up as silently as possible, prepared to run. Sylvain made no move to stop him, nor usher him on.

The end of the cramped path was in sight, opening up into a larger room that looked like an antechamber. Based on the positioning, if Sylvain had to guess, he’d say it was the antechamber to the relic storage specifically. The problem was that the room was not empty.

He almost didn’t recognize her without the weighty crown atop her head or long train of her ornamental dress, but the loosely-tied pale green hair was too long to belong to anyone but Rhea. She was not looking at the little hole he was wedged into, and hopefully the shadows would overhang enough that even if she did, she wouldn’t see him, but his heart nearly leapt from his chest when she started to hum.

The sound filled the room, and he felt Claude jolt in surprise behind him too. So he hadn’t run away yet, but if recognizing Rhea’s voice was enough to do it, Sylvain didn’t blame him. The song was a hymn of praise, but she didn’t seem to be performing it… just idle singing. Something about seeing her in such a peaceful mood while they were trying to steal from her was oddly chilling, and for a moment, Sylvain seriously considered calling it all off.

Logically, she was at peace because she didn’t know. Logically, this was a good sign. But some part of Sylvain’s heart pulled at him, some reminder of the aftermath of the Tragedy of Duscur, of how calm she had looked declaring the entire country of Duscur and every resident therein forfeit to the goddess’s wrath.

He wasn’t afraid of her, nor was it anything like that long dark well of a hallway. He just knew, with absolute certainty, that she wouldn’t hesitate to order them executed, and Sreng invaded, if she had any idea what was going on. Whether or not her orders would be heeded didn’t matter— she could ruin everything in a single breath, and wouldn’t blink.

Her song lasted a few minutes, the full length of the hymn. The entire time, he and Claude just stood there, in their barely-hidden cranny, waiting. As it ended, there was a tense moment of silence, and slowly, she turned to leave. Her eyes glanced over where Sylvain stood, but never stopped or showed any sign of recognition. And then she opened the heavy door, and she left.

They waited in silence at least another five minutes before Sylvain said in the barest whisper, “This is the place.”

He reached back a bit, to see if Claude was still there without taking his eyes off the empty room, and he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Did she head in?”

“No. Away. ...How long do we wait?”

There was a silence, and Sylvain could guess just the calculations Claude was doing. Between the time she might wait to re-check if she was suspicious, and the time it would take her to alert the knights and come back in full force, there was a very slim sweet spot.

“Two more minutes. Then we’re in and out. We’ll use this passage to get out too.”

“Still using the exit that goes into town?”

“Unless we get split up, then you head towards the kitchens and I’ll go wherever my little heart desires.”

The two minutes passed, and Sylvain edged out of the passageway, quickly eyeing every corner and shadow of the room to be sure they weren’t walking into any kind of ambush. Once satisfied, he moved to give room for Claude to squeeze out too, and they approached the doors opposite where Rhea had left. They were large, but unadorned— as Sylvain had suspected, this was not a traditional entrance any more than their initial sliding stone wall. And, to equal parts nerves and bliss, the door opened easily. No traps, no locks, a true back door.

Actually retrieving Failnaught was easy once inside, and the second Claude grasped his hand around the bow and that familiar red glow went alight, it was time to go.

Leaving was easier than coming, they moved faster, more confidently, a mix between stealth and the overwhelming certainty that they were going to be caught at any moment if they didn’t hurry the fuck up. The twists and turns required no double-checking, no back-tracking, and it was with a massive relief that Sylvain sped past that long dark hallway on their way towards blessed freedom.

They came out of a low, sloping exit into the backyard of a blacksmith’s shop, and fresh air never tasted so sweet. They took just a moment to wrap the bow in Claude’s cloak and moved faster in the open, hardly being spared a glance on the back roads, and as they went from a fast walk to a jog to a run, a sense of absolute giddiness overcame Sylvain.

They were doing it. They were away from the monastery, and got further with every step. There was no sign of alarm— a shadow passed overhead, and they looked up to see Brenner and his two passengers, the _mysterious stranger_ clutched to Hilda more tightly than Felix would ever admit to on the ground. No church pegasi or wyverns followed them.

They weren’t just doing it. They had _done_ it.

His legs carried him faster towards their own ride out as the houses faded into farmlands, the dirt roads into lush grass, and the whole way Claude was right beside him. They approached the old bridge that went over a river that no longer existed, Cosette waiting underneath it, and Sylvain slid down the steep hill to the riverbed. As he popped up to his feet, Claude was shuffling down the side of the hill as well, and without thinking Sylvain’s arms were around him, pulling him close.

His heart was drumming in his ears, his excitement was fit to burst out of him, and he kissed Claude.

His eyes were closed, but he could feel Claude almost pull away in his surprise, was ready to let go, but before the apology could form in his head Claude was kissing him too, readjusting to make it _better_ than Sylvain’s rush had allowed.

It only lasted a moment, and when Sylvain pulled away his words were caught in his throat. A thousand witty comments at his disposal to pretend it was nothing, to act like it was all according to plan, but Claude’s soft, genuine smile made every one of them fall away. And then Claude had the nerve to beat him to the punch.

“So is it the theft or the heresy that gets you going?”


	6. Chapter 6

Gautier territory was a lot warmer this time around. Not in weather (though the bite of the cold was certainly lessened now that Claude had gotten his hands on a coat that actually fit him), but definitely in something. For the second time, he had arrived to Sylvain’s home surprised that he wasn’t dead, or at least worse off— and with Failnaught in their possession, this return was _triumphant_.

The addition of Hilda certainly didn’t hurt, either. Mealtimes with just Sylvain and Felix had lapsed into long silences more than once while Sylvain was busy prostrating himself for the crime of bad luck. But Hilda wouldn’t let _anybody’s_ bad mood get her down, and Felix seemed to be feeling significantly better about things himself, now that he was actively involved in them.

In fact, the mood of their dinner after the heist was _buzzing_, each recounting their part in the plan with vigor, Felix’s excited iteration of his mock battle with Byleth particularly detailed. He finished with a flair, standing to put up his leg and show off a deep gash from where he had underestimated the reach of Byleth’s whip-like sword.

Perhaps there was some hypocrisy there, to proudly display an injury gained in a good fight, when Felix had torn into Sylvain for having an injury at all— but before Claude could comment, Hilda changed the subject on him.

“Did you seriously cook this, Sylvain? It’s pretty great.”

“Hm?” He pulled his attention away from Felix, who settled back down to his own food. “Oh, yeah, it’s all thanks to Dedue though, he taught me everything I know. And Ashe! There’s no way I’d be able to find half these spices in Faerghus if Ashe didn’t point me to just the right merchants. Faerghus likes their food _bland_.”

That same habit of Sylvain’s, and when Claude glanced over for confirmation, he caught Felix’s eye just before the other turned his head, pretending they weren’t thinking the exact same thing.

Hilda giggled, and pushed on Sylvain’s shoulder playfully. “Quite the little homemaker, aren’t you! Not that I’m complaining. Is this all a bid to _get the girls?_”

Felix scoffed, amusement clear. “You should have tasted his food at the start of the war, the lot of it was unrefined and overeager. He couldn’t even get a fish cooked without drying it out to nigh-inedible.” Claude had to wonder if Felix wasn’t trying to show off one of his little Sylvain-wrangling tips.

“Still so harsh,” Sylvain laughed. “True though, I did do all the cooking while we were holed up during the war. We ate whatever Felix could hunt so we didn’t deplete the soldiers’ stores. I’ve heard you’re your own worst critic, but whoever said that clearly hadn’t met Felix.”

“That sounds even _more_ homey,” Hilda grinned, and then leaned forward, getting a look that Claude recognized all too well. “Sooo the supplies are doing good _now_, right?”

“Oh yeah, Gautier is thriving. We’re one of the only territories that wasn’t really hindered in food production and such during the war, so we’re sitting pretty.”

“Great! I’m gonna go out tomorrow, but everybody has to be back here before the sun sets, okay? That _includes_ you, Felix.”

——

There had been no doubt Hilda was up to something, shooing the boys out of the home by midday with reminders of what horrors she would impart on them if they were late in their return. Throughout the day the energy around the little town grew to a steady hum, but Claude insisted they not think too much on it. Instead, he asked Felix if he could demonstrate how he contended with the strange nature of Byleth’s weapon, a question that sparked a shine in Felix’s eyes and a beeline for the barracks training grounds.

Sylvain suspected the question was more because he knew Felix wanted to gush about weaponry some more, than any real curiosity on the matter — Claude _could_ but typically _didn’t_ use a sword, after all, so even if he wound up fighting Byleth somehow, he would probably have to use an entirely different strategy from Felix — but the outcome was the same. It was nice to see them actually talking to and engaging with each other, after _whatever_ had happened their last time in Gautier. Sylvain watched the training unfold from the sidelines, eventually leaning back on the stone bench and staring up at the ceiling instead, letting the clash of training swords and murmur of the two talking lull him into a near-sleep.

It was good that they were getting along, and comforting that Claude was making an effort towards it. If that kiss had been as serious as it felt, disliking or antagonizing Felix wasn’t an option.

If it was serious… Sylvain’s lips twitched into a smile. A little hope didn’t taste half bad.

——

Claude had known precisely what to expect when they returned to the Gautier home, but the other two were left utterly astounded by how quickly Hilda had pulled together what looked to be the entire town for a party surrounding Gautier estate. Just before the sun started to set, the trio arrived on the scene, and were met with excited shouts and cheering as the band started to play.

“Hilda!” Sylvain raised his voice to find her, but she was already approaching, a bounce in her step. “_What_ did you do?”

“I threw a party? I thought since we all did so great relic-napping, we deserved to let off some steam!” Claude smiled; leave it to her to not just have the same idea he did, but to execute it on a much larger scale like it was nothing. “Everybody was so excited, too, I can’t believe _your_ territory isn’t partying nonstop.”

Her tone bordered on admonishing, and Sylvain laughed a bit sheepishly. “Guess I’ve been thinking about other shit. Thank you, Hilda, I’m sure everyone needs it.”

“They’re excited to have you two here, too, so you can’t run away, okay? So many people were like ‘we never even got to thank Duke Fraldarius!!’ I _promised_ you wouldn’t disappoint them by slinking away immediately.”

Felix gave a start as he realized she was talking to him, wide-eyed and immediately looking for an exit through the people, but Sylvain clapped a hand on his shoulder with a grin. “You heard the woman, Felix. Maybe if we start off the dancing now, she’ll give you a break later.” Felix put up a token protest as he was guided towards the music, and Sylvain shot a wink over his shoulder at Hilda, who waved back cheerily.

Claude hung back with Hilda, admiring her handiwork (and the unfolding scene of Sylvain trying to guide Felix into a dance against his will) with a smile. After a moment of drinking it in, he asked, “What do you think?”

“What, you _haven’t_ yet?”

He let out a little laugh. “Kind of.” Of course she’d known precisely what Claude was talking about, no matter how vague he had been. “Is that your blessing?”

“Honestly, I can’t believe you haven’t pounced yet. He’s got a huge heart, and he’s _way_ smarter than he acts. And he’s cute! If even _Sylvain’s_ not your type, I’ve given up.”

“As much as I would _love_ for you to give up…” Claude sighed, with half a casual shrug. “You got me. Something’s there.”

Hilda pumped her arms in the air and gave a loud _“Yes!”_ of triumph, mercifully drowned out by the sounds of the party ramping up around them.

——

It was only natural that Hilda had pulled out all the stops, and as the night wore on food and copious alcohol arrived. There were several soldiers who promised to stay sober and keep watch of their own volition, and for once, even Claude felt like it was safe to fully let his guard down and drink in earnest alongside the others. It was precisely what he had been hoping for their first time through Gautier, if surrounded by a lot more people than planned, but the core of it was the same: Sylvain had been shouting and cheering and dancing all night, and he’d pulled the rest of them into it all more than once.

When Sylvain approached him as the band wound down, Claude expected to be asked to one last dance, but instead he got a status update in the form of “Felix is _passed out_. My bed is officially stolen, he takes his half out of the middle and _sprawls_.” That cheery grin was infectious. “How’s Hilda? I haven’t seen her since our last dance.”

“She said your ‘passionate style’ was too much for her frail little frame. She assigned the clean-up crew for morning and went to get her beauty sleep.”

Sylvain’s eyes lit up, and he snaked his hand around Claude’s own. “So that means I can steal you away?”

_Oh?_ “I suppose so. Another surprise?”

“Nothing all that exciting.” But he was already pulling Claude around the back of the house, where the last dregs of music felt even farther away, and towards the barn where Cosette and Brenner were sleeping. He held a finger to his lips as he opened the door and slipped in, and Claude obliged the silence— not that it helped much, when Sylvain stumbled right into Brenner’s side as he tried to move past him, earning an annoyed harrumph.

Claude almost protested when Sylvain then put a hand on the ladder up to the hayloft, but the motion was long-practiced and he was at the top quickly, then reached his hand down to help Claude up in turn. The barn spun lightly around him as he climbed, but apparently a _roll in the hay_ was not Sylvain’s intent; as soon as Claude was on solid ground again, Sylvain reached up to a half-hidden door in the low roof and unlatched it to reveal the night sky. “Come on,” he whispered, and hoisted himself up through the door for Claude to once again follow.

Up on the roof, the night air was chilling, refreshing, but unfortunately not sobering enough to save them from some more stumbling, laughing, and one near-fall that Sylvain snatched Claude out of, safely landing ass-first on the shingles of the sloped roof. Sylvain flopped next to him and laid down flat with a sigh.

“Like I said, nothing all that exciting. Just wanted to show you my favorite view of the stars.”

Claude laid down too, and took a moment to appreciate what he was being shown. A shiver ran through him, and he heard Sylvain next to him shifting. Without a word, Sylvain’s heavy coat was tossed over his lap— the same one Claude had borrowed the whole last trip to Sreng. Well, he couldn’t complain about that, and draped it over himself like a blanket.

“Why here?”

“It’s a secret. Not, like— I mean, it’s a secret place. No one used wyverns here until I brought in Cosette, so the wyvern barn was just storage. It took me half a day to unstick that trap door when I first found it. Always worried the door would get locked behind me, but it never happened.” There was an odd tone to his reminiscence, but for now Claude left it alone. “I’ve caught more than one cold from falling asleep up here,” he laughed, and trailed off with a sigh.

They sat in that silence for several minutes, as Claude ruminated on someone so outgoing finding a quiet, secret place to be such a source of comfort. And what it meant, that he now chose to share it.

“Hey,” Claude started quietly, and got a hum in response. “What should have killed you as a kid? ...You owe me one.”

The continued silence after went on so long that he wondered if Sylvain hadn’t fallen asleep. But just as he was about to check, Sylvain answered.

“I fell down an empty well. Broke my arm. Tried to climb out, fell a couple more times before I was found.” A pause, as Claude tried to calculate just how unlikely it was to survive a fall that far, and multiple times, but that was not the only mystery. “I passed out and lost my coat in the middle of a blizzard. I took a nap under a tree and woke up hitting the water of the river, before I knew how to swim. Learned real quick. I could barely eat for.. ten months, damn near wasted away.” It didn’t sound like the end of the list, not even close. “Everybody just knew I was a clumsy, stupid child.”

It was wrong, _wrong_, Claude could feel his hackles raise as he wanted to argue it fiercely, he had never met someone _less_ clumsy and stupid than Sylvain. How many more near-misses were there? If Sylvain listed every one, would they all be framed as his own fault, his own mistake, even when they clearly couldn’t have been?

Claude’s anger at invisible foes slowly dulled, and he rolled onto his side to face Sylvain, who continued to stare upwards at the stars. Quietly, unsure he wanted to be heard, he asked, “Do you know who threw you in the river?”

“......yeah.”

He reached over to brush some hair from Sylvain’s face, carefully. “Do you think you’ll be able to tell me someday?”

“...I dunno.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and Claude made up his mind.

“I won’t go sleuthing this one out. I promise.”

It would have been imperceptible if he hadn’t been searching for it, but Sylvain’s shoulders untensed with a slow exhale. “..Thanks. Thanks.”

Claude felt bad for turning the mood so dark; he cracked a smile, and shifted his tone entirely to joke, “You know, unless I get _really_ bored.”

Thankfully, Sylvain chuckled, and rolled over Claude, who dutifully returned to his back. Sylvain sat over him, blocking the view of the stars, heavy smile barely visible in the dark. “Guess I can’t let you get bored, then.”

On some level, it felt like they should kiss again. Rooftop stargazing, a deep confession, a handsome, brooding man just in reach… But when Sylvain didn’t make the move, Claude put a hand to his cheek instead, soft and affectionate. “I’m freezing my ass off.”

“..Yeah. Let’s head back in before Cosette decides she’s hungry.”

He held Sylvain’s hand back to the house, through the side door, and into Claude’s guest room. The whole night had felt like an apology to each other; for secrecy, for digging, for not _trusting_ each other. That trust was paramount, now more than ever, with their return to Sreng on the horizon. But Claude couldn’t think about that, through the static in his head he could only focus on the hand in his that hadn’t yet been pulled away, the way Sylvain had sounded so accepting of every potential death, how real Sylvain’s smile felt, in spite of the heavy look in his eyes…

They fell clumsily into bed, still fully clothed, still loosely holding on, and fell asleep with arms around each other.

——

Sylvain didn’t miss the irony that he was more embarrassed to be seen exiting Claude’s room in his own home than he had been worried in the castle, but that was mostly for the company— he was well aware of the ribbing he was going to get if spotted. He got lucky, though, and as he snuck out to wash up he spotted Claude and Felix in the living room, the former in his meditation pose and the latter sprawled on the couch, arm over his eyes, clearly deeply involved with a hangover. It was quiet, and peaceful, and it remained such until well over an hour later when Hilda wandered out of her own claimed room, asking loudly about breakfast.

Sylvain cooked again, enjoying the return to his old routine, while Claude launched into what seemed to be a routine of his own: strategizing in the morning. _That_, Sylvain thought, might have to change— his mood in the mornings was iffy at best, and he was no good at plotting fresh out of bed. He swirled the last of his breakfast around his plate, daydreaming with a lazy smile about how he could keep Claude from jumping straight to work in the mornings.

For now, though, it was just a daydream, as Claude had turned the topic away from what Felix and Hilda could do from the safety of Fódlan, and towards Sylvain. “I am curious about what Felix said before, you know. What _is_ your plan for Gautier?”

Sylvain sighed, and reluctantly tucked away his more explicit thoughts for later. “Like I told Felix, I don’t have much of a plan yet. I don’t even know if I’m actually going to dissolve it, that’s kind of a big step, you know? Besides— I don’t have the power to do much of _anything_ until I’m officially named the margrave. That means my dad has to give Gautier to me willingly, or die.” There was a beat of silence, and he added, “So, Claude, how do you feel about murder?” It was a joke, but even as it came out Sylvain could hear the unnatural strain in his own voice.

Claude tilted his head at him a bit curiously, and after a beat Hilda stretched and stood up from the table, tugging at Felix’s sleeve. “Since we’ve had _our_ breakfast, we _have_ to feed Cosette and Brenner now, it’s only fair.”

——

Reluctant as he was, Felix at least waited until he had been fully dragged outside before complaining irritably, “Are you _that_ allergic to politics? I’d have liked to know Sylvain’s answer without unraveling his half-truths later, at least he can’t lie to me _and_ Claude.”

“Claude wanted some privacy! He gave me the signal to leave, you know?”

“What _signal?_ I didn’t see anything.”

“Well it wouldn’t be a very good signal if everyone knew it, now would it? Anyway, if he wants alone time, you probably don’t wanna see it any more than I do.”

Felix rolled his eyes at the implication, but he could admit to himself she was right— the subject was undeniably a sore one. Claude was, against all odds, _being careful_.

——

Back inside, Sylvain was laughing into his fist. “Not exactly _subtle_, is she?”

Claude smiled, and shrugged as if to say _‘what can you do?’_ “You know Hilda.”

“I know she’s gonna kill Felix, subjecting him to all that pep so often.”

“I’m gonna take a wild stab,” Claude redirected, “and say you’re not _that_ eager to kill your dad.”

Sylvain leaned back with a slow exhale, hands behind his head in a mockery of a relaxed pose. “Of course not. Don’t get me wrong, he’s absolute garbage and the world would not weep for his loss, but I’m not really in the business of patricide. Just seems more likely than him giving it up on his own.” He couldn’t hold back the tinge of bitterness in his voice, either, but if they were going to talk about it, they were going to talk about it. “The only way I’m becoming margrave is if I show up with a crest baby.”

_“Crest baby?”_ Claude whistled. “Quite a turn of phrase.”

“If you met him, you’d get it. He’s totally obsessed. Crests are everything, you know? I could be totally worthless as a leader, send hundreds to their deaths at a whim—”

“Leave every village not on the border totally unguarded?” Claude offered helpfully, and Sylvain didn’t hide his wry smile at the callback to his father’s own mistakes.

“You get it. As long as there’s a territory left to rule, a crest is all I need to rule it. A crest, and a kid with a crest, so that the whole nasty cycle can start all over again.”

“I don’t imagine it could be about wanting you to have a family of your own?” He appreciated the doubt in Claude’s voice even at the suggestion; he had heard similar before from Ingrid, and even Dimitri in their younger years, but from Claude it didn’t sound so _accusatory_.

“Nope. Gautier never really was strong with family ideals. I never even met my mom — don’t get misty-eyed for me just yet, though, there’s no tragedy here. Her job was to pop out a kid with a crest, and on her second try, she did. She now has a home and a pretty sum of money to keep her company, I think somewhere in Galatea? Sooo.. no. Not about family.”

“Yikes,” Claude half-laughed, and it pulled a laugh from Sylvain in kind.

“Yeah. Yikes.” He shrugged. “I would love to give you a clear timeline for how I’m gonna handle the actual process of giving Sreng their land back, but old Margrave Gautier has other plans. He doesn’t even have to know what I’m doing to deny me power, just that I’m _not_ trying for any kids.”

Claude hummed, and Sylvain felt a bit better knowing that this particular conundrum was now on a genius’s radar. “Where is he, anyway? I thought this was Gautier estate.”

“Oh, it is! I actually kinda gave him the same treatment he gave my mom, he’s been in our mountain cabin since the start of the war, safe and out of the way.”

“Convenient. Do you have.. a backup plan, to murder?”

“Oh, _geez_,” Sylvain faked a grimace, “do I have to?” He waved it off, though, “Dimitri is my backup plan. My hope is that if all else fails, he can go all big bad king and either force Gautier into my hands, or force giving Sreng their land back. Frankly, I don’t actually know what all a king can do, I just assume it’s a lot.”

The incredulous stare Claude gave him at that lasted a few seconds too long, like he was waiting for the punchline that never came, before he shook his head. “Sometimes I forget how serious you were when you said you were bad at politics.”

——

The process of actually leaving for Sreng was considerably more complicated this time around. Even though Hilda had specifically requested to be left out of Sreng business after their heist, and both of them had been present for Claude’s _long_ talk the day before about everyone’s place in the current plan, both Hilda and Felix had decided at the last moment they wanted to come along. Obviously, this was impossible, but convincing them both of such had proven remarkably difficult.

Still, it was a task managed, and Claude had thought Felix’s huff of anger at being told no was the last they’d hear from each other for some time.

The prickling on the back of Claude’s neck as he finalized the contents of their new wagon said otherwise. He purposefully ignored the feeling until he had finished with his work, and finally he turned to acknowledge Felix’s stare with a friendly wave.

He was closer than Claude thought, and closed that small distance until they were an arm’s length from each other— for a moment, Claude had a flash of a feeling he might draw his sword, but he was spared the glint of steel in favor of more staring, just as sharp.

The timing of the silence reminded him of Byleth, too long by half. Maybe Felix, too, was just _thinking_. Claude stared back at him, unbothered all the same.

Finally, Felix broke the silence. “You know what happens if he doesn’t come back in one piece?” It wasn’t a rhetorical. He just wanted confirmation.

Never one to be cowed by intimidation tactics, Claude made a point of giving a cheery whistle of contemplation. “Oh, let’s see…” He made a show of _thinking on it_, rubbing his chin and humming before his gaze met Felix’s. “I assume the word _evisceration_ is in there somewhere.”

Felix didn’t answer, which was answer enough. Claude waited again, not so long this time, but as he turned to take his leave Felix spoke up again. “You can’t die either.”

Interesting.

“Oooor you’ll…?” Claude teased, pushing his luck, and it got him a scowl.

_“Don’t play dumb.”_

——

Yesugei had been a welcome constant in their time in Sreng. He was a member of Odval’s clan, the one who had shown them to their room their first night, and the one responsible for much of the organization during the negotations. But more importantly, Yesugei had seemed, from their first appearance, utterly disinterested in them. He was apparently detached from the proceedings, only caring for the logistics of what he needed to do, and more _bored_ of Sylvain and Claude than anything.

It was, in its own way, a comfort— at least to Sylvain. So when they arrived in the trade capital of Sreng once more, he was quite pleased to see Yesugei sat in his usual spot, charts and timetables spread across his usual desk. His long black hair was kept carelessly loose and his features were just a little too sharp to be traditionally pretty. He looked like he had seen the breadth of the world, and found it lacking.

He leveled that expression on them, and greeted them, “Oh. You came back.” His eyes flickered down to the bow in Claude’s hand, glowing lightly red. “Oh. You actually did it.”

“Is Mother Odval here?” Claude asked. “I’d like to show her firsthand.”

“You are early, so no.” Yesugei sighed and closed the large book in front of him. “She bid everyone prepare a proper welcome for you two, now that we know you are serious. Talks of peace are meant to be encouraged with a feast, where all participating parties bring provisions and eat each other’s meals.” The explanation was given in a bored monotone. “Mother Odval decided already that because all clans are participating, and you are outsiders who do not know our traditions, you would be exempt. However… many of the clan leaders thought you liars. They did not think you would come back, and had no intention of preparing a meal of peace for you.”

Sylvain started, “That’s—” but was cut off by Claude speaking up instead.

“Do you think we’d be able to get permission to hunt somewhere nearby? It won’t be food from our home, but at least it’ll be by our labor.” A far better idea than Sylvain’s _‘no need for a welcome,’_ and he once again thanked his lucky stars he had Claude as a partner.

Yesugei offered a raised eyebrow, which may as well have been a shout of surprise compared to the rest of his reactions, before shrugging. “I had thought the same. I will take one of you—”

“Both of us,” Claude corrected with an easy, pleasant tone, but Yesugei’s look in response to his caution was of clear annoyance.

“Of course. If we were to encounter _three_ antelope we would surely be overwhelmed. Both.” He reopened his book and began writing something down, dismissing them with their orders: “We ride out two hours before dawn. I recommend another layer of clothing, the cold at night is deeper than you can know.”

Sylvain almost laughed; Yesugei had no idea how acquainted they and the cold already were.

——

The next morning was predictably miserable for Sylvain. They couldn’t let their guards down just because they were early, so it was back to partial nights’ sleep, and when Claude nudged him awake for their hunt he complained half-heartedly, “I can’t even shoot a bow. I’m totally unnecessary.”

Claude had no breakfast to coax him from bed this time, but as Sylvain stretched in place, trying to get up the motivation to open his eyes and move from the comfort of heavy blankets, he instead felt soft lips against his forehead briefly. His heart fluttered along with his eyes, but even as he sat up Claude had climbed out of bed.

“...I didn’t know I gave you that power, but I’m gonna regret that I did,” Sylvain breathed lightly, but the ‘damage’ was done.

_“Yes, you are.”_

If Sylvain hadn’t been so caught off guard by the kiss, that cheeky smile might not have been so damn endearing.

——

If Yesugei was at all impressed by their mutual skill with riding horses they had never met, he (predictably) didn’t show it. If anything, he looked even more disinterested in them than usual, and for brief moments, Sylvain got the feeling that that was _purposeful_.

As they rode out, he kept a close eye on Yesugei, and on _Claude_ keeping a close eye on Yesugei. He could maybe guess, from the caution thus far, what Claude was thinking: This was an ambush. Luring them away from the safety of town on the premise of a symbol of peace, before anyone really knew they had returned, when no one _expected_ their return… It made sense. It would be the smart thing to do.

But siding with the Empire at Derdriu would have been the smart thing to do, too. Sylvain wasn’t so sure.

“Hey, Yesugei. Do you mind if I ask about you a bit?”

In the cold, clear pre-morning air Sylvain’s voice carried well without having to raise it, even over the sounds of hoofbeats. “We will see.”

He smiled; stone cold people were Sylvain’s specialty, and he knew a yes when he heard one.

“How did you end up in such an important position in your clan? Are you related to Mother Odval?”

He shook his head, still scanning the horizon for signs of their prey. “Blood is important to your beliefs, yes?”

“..Blood is important to the beliefs of our fathers’ generation, yes. But we’re working to change that.”

A shrug, as if the answer had no interest to him anyway. “Often, a clan will have blood within it, but only because we are raised together. I have no blood in my clan at all.”

“I see. How’d you join her, then?”

“My old clan was killed.” Sylvain’s mouth went suddenly dry at Yesugei’s blunt words— there was no reason to be so certain, but he could have spoken the next himself: “Ten, eleven years ago.”

He knew, he _knew_, but he counted the years anyway to be sure. “...Miklan.”

Yesugei gave him a look, full of meaning he couldn’t read. “Was that Gautier’s heir at the time? Then yes. _Miklan_.” It was almost a relief, to hear his brother’s name said with such disgust by someone else. Almost.

“I’m..” It was hard to find the words— what words _were_ there? “I’m sorry. He wasn’t the heir, but if he had been.. I don’t know. Maybe something would have been different.” Yesugei had turned away again, but Sylvain could tell he was still listening. “It’s my fault. My crest, my blood, is what stopped him from being heir to Gautier, and what pushed him to the lengths he went. I can’t express…”

His words fell off, and Yesugei and Claude both let the silence be for a few moments, before the former responded. “I believe my clan was tricked. Used. I believe Miklan Gautier betrayed them. And I know Gautier had no right to kill them.”

“Sylvain said the same,” Claude made his presence known for the first time in a while. “He’s got an eye for that kind of corruption. It’s what we’re here to prevent.”

If Yesugei had more to say, it was cut off as he spotted a herd of antelope in the distance, and held up an arm to start directing their hunt.

——

The hunt went smoothly, all three focused on their objective in spite of the conversation before it, and it wasn’t until they had dropped off their haul and were returning their horses that any of them said something beyond short, clipped directions amidst the chaos.

Sylvain was patting his horse down and giving her affectionate praise when he caught Yesugei out the corner of his eye, nearly slipped out the door. “Wait, Yesugei— I wanted to thank you for taking us on the hunt. It.. it means a lot, that you believe in us, after everything.” It was partially a question, though his tone never betrayed it. If Yesugei didn’t believe in them, he could say as much now. If Miklan had rendered this impossible over a decade ago, there was no use waiting to find out.

“...Mother Odval has faith in you. Her faith is my faith.” For a moment, that bored facade flickered, and he as he turned to leave, he added, “Call me Yesu.”

——

“_What_ was that?”

Sylvain should have known better than to pat himself on the back for a job well done.

“What was what?” he asked Claude incredulously, closing the door to their room behind him.

“_‘It’s my fault’?_”

Sylvain felt himself tense involuntarily, Claude was getting a bit too good at questioning things that were better left unquestioned. “I—”

“You have to _stop_, Sylvain. You can’t take the blame for everything Miklan did.”

“It’s not— I was telling the _truth_, Claude. It is my fault, if I hadn’t—”

“If you hadn’t been born,” Claude’s voice was lower, _serious_ in a way that made Sylvain’s heart clench, “we wouldn’t be standing here. If you hadn’t been born, the Kingdom would have fallen, and any history of Sreng’s old lands might have fallen with it. Just because someone didn’t want you to be born doesn’t mean they were _right_.”

Sylvain was at a loss— Claude’s words cut deep, and not the least because it didn’t feel like they were coming from a void. Sylvain was too used to reading the slightest adjustments in moods to miss the barest tinge of pain there.

“It’s strategically stupid, anyway,” Claude added with a sigh. “You keep telling people it’s your fault, and they’ll believe it as much as you do.”

——

Now that they were here, Sylvain found waiting for the conferences to start again interminable. But when his instinct was to again pass the time with Claude, playing chess for secrets— he stopped. And he stepped outside instead.

How many secrets had he given Claude lately? How much had he revealed, for better or worse? He didn’t resent it… but he couldn’t give any more right now. He was burnt out on emotions.

Sylvain’s feet carried him out to Yesugei’s post near the entrance to the building, where he leaned on the front of the desk, chatting up the less-than-chatty young man. “Just how do you keep your hair so silky smooth in a desert? It’s gorgeous, I can’t say I’m not jealous.”

Yesu openly rolled his eyes. “Is that how you _flirt_ back in Gautier?”

“Wha- no!” Though it wasn’t until then that Sylvain realized how he had been leaning in, or how his casual tone came off— “I promise, you’re beautiful, but I’m taken.”

“Ah, so you two _are_ together.”

Sylvain perked up a bit, smiled in spite of himself. “..You can tell?”

He was almost floored by the sound of Yesu _laughing_, if a bit cruelly— it was the most emotion he had shown their entire stay in Sreng. “Are you an excited dog? Yes, I can tell. In how you.. talk without talking.” He waved his hand to say it meant nothing, but it didn’t do anything to stay the little pangs of joy in Sylvain’s chest. It was nothing serious yet, but if even Yesugei could tell…

“Anyway, I’m not here just to _not-flirt_. I’ve got a lot of extra time right now, you know? So I was wondering if you knew any other clans that maybe wanted some help? I know it’s kinda cagey right now, but if I can provide some assistance, maybe that’d help before our official welcome.”

Yesu leaned back in his chair, staring Sylvain down as if evaluating his intentions. He must have found them satisfactory, as he then said, “Fine. Father Katayori has been looking for some help.”

_Ah._ Father Katayori. “...Thanks, Yesu. I’ll see what I can do.”


End file.
